


Ouroboros

by eldritcher



Series: A Four Chord Carousel [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi, Politics, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort has returned, and spends most of his time trying to understand the world he has returned to. He tries to deal with his mental connection with a boy he would rather not think about. </p><p>Yet the boy and he are one, consuming each other, and everything in the Wizarding World stands still encircled by their bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~~~

I walked out from my room onto the portico that looked upon the eastern rose gardens. I could see Lucius’s peacocks strutting around. They looked full of themselves, reminding me of Quidditch players at Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts, that was best a memory left cloaked. With determination I hadn’t known that I was capable of until those long and wretched years of wandering, I bent my mind towards the present. Two women, both strikingly beautiful though past the prime of their years, walked on the garden path, arm in arm, lightheartedly conversing. I had seen this sight before, years ago, and I wondered if the involuntary clench of my palm was wrought of nostalgia. 

“My lord!” Bella hailed him, when she saw me. 

I nodded to her, unnerved more than I cared to admit to have her blatant gaze upon me. It had taken me years to get used to that, after her initiation into the Death Eaters. Then there were those years, and now we were both back, she from Azkaban and I from the incorporeal, and I would have to get used to her flagrant display of lust all over again. 

“My lord,” Narcissa said. 

Narcissa. I remembered Lucius introducing his bride at their wedding festivities all those years ago. She had been a slip of a girl then, but had held her own, with graceful pride and a shy smile. I had noticed then that she had a very fine neck. I had taken note of those eyes, blue as a robin’s eggs. I had taken her hand to press a kiss, and I had felt her skin warm and soft against mine. Later, Abraxas - dear, dead Abraxas - had teased me, remarking that his son’s bride was the first woman I had deigned to touch. I had put an end to his remarks in a way that befitted our relations then, before he had died, and I had been flung out of my body by a mother’s love. It seemed, however, that I remembered quite many details, for when I caught Narcissa’s gaze, I thought of robin’s eggs again, and wondered if her skin was still as warm and soft. 

~~~

My skin was splotched raw pink over large patches of white. The regeneration had done me no favours aesthetically. Perhaps Dumbledore would consider it from a moral perspective, that a killer’s eyes should be red. I, myself, drew the rather less dramatic comparison to rabbits. I hated rabbits. I had never considered myself a vain man, yet I wished that I could modify my appearance to a more pleasing form. This, I found myself considering the most when watching Narcissa. 

Watching Narcissa. As I had heard MacNair remark to Wormtail once, it seemed that my regard for the late Abraxas had found a new nest in the fair Narcissa’s form. She was a mother, and was likely forty, if I remembered correctly, but I found her enticing. She did not notice, I daresay. Why would she? She was happily married to a very handsome man. She was not Bella. It would have been easier, perhaps, if I had taken it into my head to become fascinated with Bella. 

I stood on the portico that night, watching the stars. Tomorrow, I would receive an answer from the werewolves in Europe. Negotiations would likely consume the next few weeks. I had not yet become accustomed to a corporeal form and tired quite easily. My constitution was improving, yet I thought it unlikely that I would reach my old strength without magical means. I would be served well if I retired for the night. I lingered. 

“My lord?” Narcissa’s voice came from the garden. 

She was asking something about the arrangements in the room, and if everything was to my liking. In the moonlight, her shoulders gleamed. She shivered when a gust of wind overcame the gentle protection of her silken dress and shawl. 

I cast a warming charm absently. She stuttered a few words of gratitude and clutched her shawl to her tightly. I realised the reason, a moment later. I had developed the charm, targeting it specifically towards the parts of my anatomy that suffered the most from the cold - ear tips, fingers, toes, and genitals. 

I had the most inexplicable whim to see her in the candlelight then, to see for myself how she looked as my heating charm warmed her intimately. 

“You can enter the house through my room,” I told her. “It is cold outside.”

She nodded and followed me into the house. I closed the doors to the portico and turned to watch her in the gentle light of the candles. She cut a striking figure. Quickly, she curtseyed and left the room. 

~~~

My dreams were difficult. The boy’s mind was an unrestrained playground for adolescence. He dreamed of his bushy-haired friend’s breasts. He dreamed of being held by freckled men. He dreamed of someone who seemed to be of Veela blood. He had vivid dreams. He was a teenager with vivid dreams. Not for the first time, I cursed the boy and his dreams, and sought to find rest. Yet when rest found me, inexorably it dragged me into the potholes of the boy’s dreams, and I woke irritated. 

It needed looking into. This bond might lower my defences during sleep as it did his. 

~~~

The negotiations required presiding over meetings. The twinges of pain in my new body had to be ignored. I charmed the men, threatened a few, and mostly had my way. When the last one had left, shutting the door behind him, I let loose a soft groan and rubbed some circulation back into my numb fingers.

“I have some herbs and oil, if you wish,” Narcissa said, not meeting my eyes when I spotted her. She had probably entered the room to ask me about my meal preferences for the night, as she did every day. 

Later, I wondered why I had nodded acquiescence. I had expected her to send in a House Elf with the accoutrements. She surprised me when she came back bearing them. She set them on the large oaken table before me. Our eyes met for a scant second before she started rolling up the lacy sleeves of her dress. 

I started to speak, but she had already soaked her hands in the herb-infused oil, and taken my hands in hers. I inhaled sharply. Her hands were heated, her skin was soft, and she was the first to voluntarily touch me since Abraxas’s death. I watched her carefully, wondering what her game was. Was she in league with her husband, giving him a chance to kill while she distracted me? Lucius wanted me dead. I had known that as soon as I had met him after my return. 

The air was heavy with the smell of herbs. She remained at her task for long minutes. I held still, wary yet relieved by her touch. She looked up at me, worried. 

“Thank you,” I told her. 

My hands had been ghastly abominations held in her beautiful, delicate palms. The regeneration had involved hitherto unearthed frontiers of science and magic. It had achieved its essential purpose. First life, then vanity. 

~~~

There were weeks of meetings. Sometimes, after a particularly tedious one, Narcissa would stay behind, armed with her herbs and oils. 

Nights were restless, as the boy’s erotic dreams waded into mine. His fantasies were lush and crafted with attention to detail. It was quite difficult to nudge him towards the Department of Mysteries. He had more pleasurable matters on his mind, most of the time. And there was resistance, paltry resistance, which corroborated Severus’s story about Dumbledore ordering him to teach the boy Occlumency. I wondered if even Severus knew what ran amok in the boy’s mind. I doubted it. Severus hated teaching and would not waste time.

After one session, Narcissa rose to her feet. I thought that she was done, and began to follow suit. A slender hand came to rest on my right shoulder. I stared at her. She bit her lip, came to stand behind me, and moved her hands to my neck, enveloping it with care and gently kneading the sore muscles at the base. 

Her mind was murky, full of turbulence. There was fear for her family, there was exasperation directed at me for the state she found my muscles in, there was grim worry about the war, there was desperate desire to see Dumbledore and me both dead, and there was pride in her hands’ work and the relief she suspected it gave me. She had no fondness for me. She had revulsion for my appearance. She feared me. She hoped her services would aid her son’s welfare.

That night, I sat on the bed, stroking Nagini as she restlessly coiled and uncoiled over the sheets. The boy kept me awake with his sexual fantasies, Narcissa’s attention was worrying, my health was a concern, my magic seemed as strong as ever but my physical strength was an echo of what it had been, and there was still the matter of dealing with the Death Eaters who wanted me dead. 

Very few people wanted me alive. 

~~~ 

“I can brew you a Strengthening Potion, my lord,” Severus said, standing by the door, hesitant to enter, though I had expressly summoned the man. 

“I asked you if you can make me a potion to increase my strength, Severus,” I told the idiot. “If I wanted a temporary solution, I would not require your attention.”

He looked befuddled. This was a hark back to old times, when nobody had quite been on the same intellectual footing as I. It had not changed. Suppressing a grimace, I told the man plainly, “Come in. Examine me. Put together pieces of the puzzle. Brew me something appropriate. If it does not work, try something else. Is it so very difficult to think logically?”

His eyes bulged. Swallowing, he whispered, “Experiment on you, my lord?”

“Surely you do not think that the world abounds with creatures that came back from death, do you?”

“I might harm you,” he pointed out. He had recovered his wits. I was grateful for that. It could be trying otherwise. 

“You might,” I told him flatly. I did not need to say more. The Death Eaters that had served me before my fall knew me well enough to know that they ought to fear my calmer tones as well as my fiercer ones. 

Severus was an able and intelligent man. He entered the room briskly, checked my vitals, murmured to himself, Conjured scroll and quill, and began making notes. He poked and prodded me, albeit carefully, making more notes as he continued. He frowned and frowned some more.

“What is it?” I asked the man.

“Potter,” he said, speaking the name as if it were the foulest curse.

I did not stoop to surprise. It was unsurprising that anything unexpected would have Potter’s involvement in it. I waited patiently, wondering what it was now. 

“His blood, my lord. It seems as if you might have acquired some of its properties. Blood, wand and curse - very intricate mix. I do not think I understand the ramifications, so I cannot speculate.”

Blood, wand and curse. And the bond we shared. What an intricate mix, as Severus phrased it. I frowned. This could be very dangerous. I did not understand it. It was imperative not to waddle into unknown frontiers when Potter was concerned. He had the tenacity of a leech and the favor of Tyche herself. 

“He dreams of you,” Severus said abruptly, looking uneasy.

“What did he dream of?” I asked him.

Severus professed ignorance. 

~~~

My skin smelled of Narcissa’s oils. I had forgotten to ask the House Elf to draw a bath for me and saw no point in subjecting myself to their bowing and shrill voices at this hour of the night. I would do without.

It was difficult to fall asleep with the strange scents, but I managed. 

I was between two freckled boys. I had a Malfoy before me nude. I ran my hands greedily over the soft curves of a young woman. I buried my head in brown, unruly tresses even as I took her hard. I groaned and begged, arching on my fours, as someone fingered me.

Fingered me? 

I woke up and cursed. Potter! This had happened before, though I had not realised it. I was him when he dreamed, just as he was I when he dreamed. The bond. The wretched bond. 

Orgasmic bliss crashed through me, tearing down my mental barriers, and for a moment the boy and I were one. The fragrance of the roses wafted in through the windows and I caught myself wishing that Abraxas was still alive. 

~~~

I spent the next day mulling my options. I had to see Ollivander. That was clear. Seeing that there was nothing else to be done about it, I cast the necessary spells and made my way to Borgin and Burkes. My old employer was in good health. If he noticed me, he made no overtures. It was as it should be. 

I walked to Diagon Alley, to Ollivander’s shop, wondering if the man would completely refuse to cooperate. He was an intelligent man, a talented man. I had no wish to coerce him. I might have need of his voluntary cooperation later in this war. Yet, my charms were nonexistent and my reputation did me no favours. I was not worried about him calling the Aurors. I was, however, understandably concerned about adding one more voice to Dumbledore’s cause of convincing the Ministry that I breathed yet. 

The bell tinkled faintly. I walked in and undid the spells that Disillusioned me. The shop was empty but for Ollivander. He was working on a wand, and without raising his head, he greeted me saying, “I had expected to see you earlier this year, Mr. Riddle. You seem in fine fettle, if I may say so.”

“Why, Mr. Ollivander, that would be the first compliment to my appearance I have heard in a while,” I told him, waiting for him to look up. Would he balk in fear?

He looked up, raised his eyebrows at my appearance, and said with a smile, “You seem to be aging well. Not a wrinkle on your face.”

I suppressed a wry smile. He reminded me of Lewis Caroll’s tales. Dumbledore too had, at one point, before I had known more of him. He reminded me of the Borgia Pope, willful and nepotistic, patron of the arts and the sciences, and encouraging his children to the detriment of all others. 

“I came to buy a new wand,” I told him. 

He hummed to himself but did not reply. I walked to the display cases and looked at the neatly arranged wands. None called to me. 

“Phoenix core, yew, thirteen and a half inches,” Ollivander murmured. “Cast a Lumos for me.”

I wondered if he truly was as ignorant to the danger of his situation as he seemed to be. Lumos was not the spell this wand of mine had cast most often. I obliged him, nonetheless, and was rewarded with him muttering to himself. 

I waited patiently, while he drew out parchment and started scratching out numbers, often muttering to himself furiously. 

“Mr. Potter seems to have affected your wand,” he said.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I said calmly, “Can it be fixed?”

“It is an interesting phenomenon. Mr. Potter and you hold brother wands. At your last meeting, you were weaker than him. It seems as if his wand felt that and poured magic into yours, in a bid to strengthen you. Think of it as a substance that has lost its elasticity after being under force. Your wand will work. It has merely ‘widened’ to accommodate more magic.”

“Will I have to pour more magic into each spell than I had needed to?” I asked him, worried. 

“The time to cast will be reduced, but the burst of magic required is more.” 

I thought upon it. Interesting. This reminded me of the physics of solids and of elasticity. I frowned. This meant that the boy’s wand had also changed.

“He will have to cast less magic, but in longer bursts, to achieve the same results compared to earlier casting.”

“That is true,” Ollivander agreed. 

The boy would be more susceptible to the Dementors than he used to be. That was useful. There was the constant question in my mind, now flaring again. Why were we so connected? Why were our wands brother-wands? Why was the prophecy a thread binding us together? The Killing Curse that rebounded was the first in history. I did not understand the consequences. Had I marked him as my killer by trying to kill him? Was there no recourse to end this connection? Dealing with the boy kept me from doing everything else.

“You have brother-wands,” Ollivander said quietly.

I looked at him, willing him to explain. His gaze turned pitying and he repeated, “You have brother-wands.”

~~~

I wandered into Muggle London after taking leave of Ollivander. It was raining. I Disillusioned myself to fit in with the hundreds of Muggles thronging the streets. I smelled cigarettes, and fish and chips. I knew my way through the London streets and alleys by the Thames better than most bobbies did. I detested everything Muggle, except London. Soothed by the familiar, I wandered through the streets, pondering recent events.

The situation with Narcissa was dangerous. Lucius wanted me dead. Lucius was useful. I wanted him alive for the cause. What did Narcissa want? She was clearly afraid that I might harm her family. She wanted to buy favour. And as every other beautiful and clever woman in history’s pages, she thought she would best achieve her goal through touches, glances and sex. I did not find the prospect of coitus with her attractive or wise, though I found her attention pleasing, since she was the only one to touch me voluntarily since I had returned. 

The boy continued to be a thorn. He marauded my rest with his wet-dreams, he marauded my waking moments with the prophecy, our wands and our mental bond. 

“Watch out!” someone shouted, and then something struck me just as I was about to turn to look at the person who had yelled. 

I fell to the ground, and one of those behemoth cars whizzed by. I winced as I heard the crush of my umbrella under its wheels. 

“Are you all right?” 

I looked up. There was a posse of red-haired men and women, there was the man who had shouted at me, and staring at me in shock, standing behind the red-haired ones, was the boy who was my thorn. 

I brushed the London mud as best as I could from my clothes, rose to my feet, smiled at my rescuer, bowed to the women courteously, and said, “Very indebted.”

“You were in the middle of the street and the signal had turned green,” the man said apologetically. I recognised him now. Dumbledore’s werewolf that Severus hated having to brew the Wolfsbane for. So the others must be Weasleys.

“London streets are dangerous places to daydream,” I said. The Weasleys laughed. The young red-haired girl had grown into a lovely woman. Little wonder that I recognised her from some of the boy’s dreams.   
The rain had not let up. I would have Conjured another umbrella, but I could not do it now. I detested getting my clothes wet. My knees were bruised from the fall, my clothes were muddied, and I was very unsettled by this coincidence that had thrown the boy into my presence. I could feel his fear. He wanted his friends away, far away, from me. He wanted to warn them, but did not know how. 

“You poor man, you can take my umbrella,” the Weasley wife said. 

“It would be very uncharitable of me, madam, to deprive you when it rains so,” I said sweetly, watching the surprise and approbation in her eyes. 

“Mr. Smith!” the boy suddenly shouted, his eyes wild and desperate. “You are Mr. Smith of Paddington Drive!”

I looked at him, wondering what his game was. On the grimy London street, his eyes were the only bright things.

“You have come to Aunt Petunia’s Christmas party before,” he continued.

“Why, yes, I have! Harry! You have grown into a handsome fellow!” I said flatly. He flushed, but pasted on a grin and came to my side. 

Such a saviour he was.

“Remus, would you mind if I met you by the Leaky in an hour?” he asked his minder sweetly. He was persuasive, cajoling the Weasleys and Lupin, lying easily. It took time, but he finally managed. 

He then faced me, after they had left. His gaze was defiant, his mouth was set, and his shoulders were drawn in. His right hand’s fingers were in his pocket, clenched over his wand. 

“Brother wands,” I told him. “Your wand won’t harm me.”

“I need a new one then,” he spat. 

I sketched a bow and started to leave. He could not be killed today, here. There was a missing part of this puzzle that I should solve before I attempted to end his life. 

“I can feel you,” he said then, his tone wretched and full of self-hatred. 

I turned to face him. I could feel him too. I felt the fear, the anger and the arousal. I frowned. 

“You are fucking Mrs. Malfoy. I told the Order.”

I raised my eyebrows. 

“When she touches you, she touches me too!” he complained querulously. “It is disgusting!”

“Stay out of my mind then,” I offered. “I know that Dumbledore has you learning Occlumency. Use that.”

“Make it stop!” he asked, half-way between demand and plea. Then he turned tail and ran towards the entrance to the magical world. 

~~~ 

“Perhaps you should rest, my lord,” Narcissa said, joining me on the portico, her hands loaded with vials of oils. She seemed to be dressed in light clothes and I could see her skin underneath the gauzy material. 

“I knew your father-in-law,” I said, looking up at the stars. 

“He served you well,” she replied.

“As do you,” I told her. “As you will continue to.”

She drew a sharp breath. She was a brave woman. She was Bella’s sister. She set aside the vials on the side-table, walked back into the room. I followed her. She had already removed her outer gown. I could see her form now unobscured. She was slim, but not thin. Her eyes were shining in trepidation. 

I drew the curtains, locked the doors, and seated myself on the bed. Then I beckoned her forth. She knelt before me. I ran my hands through her hair and gently kneaded her neck, my fingers dancing over the pulse point that could break her neck if I wanted to. She did not flinch. 

The boy in my mind railed at me, in vain. He wanted me to stop. He wanted me to throw her out and return to my lonely bed where he could assail me with his erotic dreams. He wanted so many things. Greedy boy. 

When Narcissa left me in the morning, her mind had changed. She no longer feared for her family. She no longer feared me. She wanted to please me. She wanted me. She was torn between her devotion to her husband that society dictated and the raw abandonment to pleasure that my touch had granted. That was as it should be. Her eyes had been bright blue ovals when she had been pleasured. Such a lovely, brave woman. 

I was smug. I had not touched a woman before. I had not touched anyone in a very long time, not after Abraxas’s marriage. I had good reason to be smug. 

It was a gentle game from then. I saw to Narcissa every day, cocooned her in pleasure and safety, and softly snuffed out her devotion to her husband. Lucius, poor Lucius, was too proper to pleasure his wife as she desired. I, on the other hand, had spent my childhood in the alleys of London’s East End. 

I bought the werewolves, I bribed the vampires, I cleaned out the traitors from my ranks, and I knew I only needed to see to three more matters before dealing with Dumbledore.

~~~  
The first was Severus. Traitors could be killed. Severus, however, was useful to me. I did not wish to kill him. 

“I prepared a potion that I think will strengthen you,” he said, when I Summoned him.

“How does one stopper death?” I asked him.

He looked confused for a moment, before saying carefully, “You taught me all that I know of it.”

“You reminded me of myself,” I murmured, drawing close, and tracing a finger down his sallow neck. He swallowed. 

“My lord?”

“Dear me, dear me, Severus, why do you shirk away?” 

He stood still as I brought my wand to his temple. I brought my lips close to his left ear, and whispered, “I taught you all that you know of stoppering death. I taught you to live, Severus, instead of existing as you had been, as your father’s punch-bag. I taught you not to fear your tormentors. I took you for my own when you came to me broken after the Mudblood’s rejection.”

“You have been ever merciful to me,” he croaked. 

“You did not look for me. You saved the boy so many times.”

“My lord, my position at the school-“

“Serve me,” I told him flatly. “Resign from the position at the school. I need you for better things.”

He startled. Quickly recovering his wits, he said, “I will do so, my lord, if it pleases you. I will return and provide the resignation.”

“Severus, I will not let you return. You may send a letter I dictate.”

He looked trapped. He believed yet that he fought this war for Dumbledore for the sake of Lily Potter. I sighed. I had taught him better. Yet, men were foolish often. I had been merciful towards the woman, had been willing to spare her life, and that folly had cost me gravely. 

“I will give you the fair Narcissa.”

“My lord!”

It took me quite a lot of coaxing and a great deal of personal effort before I could gently persuade Narcissa to try something wilder. She was proud of her appearance and knew herself to be beautiful. The idea of being pleasured by two men appealed to her, as I had known it would. It took me greater effort to convince Severus. He, like most red-blooded Englishmen, had little desire to share intimacy with me. 

This was considerably more work than I had anticipated. Yet, it was necessary, to bring him back in line, and to keep Narcissa mellow. 

The boy complained a great deal through the bond, and was certainly repulsed, but he would simply have to deal with it. 

I was at my charming best, gently leading Narcissa and Severus through the intricate dance, first pleasuring Narcissa while Severus watched, then beckoning him forth to take my place. They melded well together, I decided, his passion for the wilder acts matching her desire to be completely owned and pleasured. I let myself out.

I was more relieved than I had expected to be. Narcissa was an attractive woman, but I had found it a chore. My relief clashed with the boy’s rage and arousal. I shook my head in amusement. Harry Potter managed to combine every emotion with arousal.

~~~

After a few days, Narcissa and Severus seemed both content. She found in him emotional depth that she craved. He found in her a very beautiful woman who was also clever. 

I had tea with them in Narcissa’s parlour. 

“Apropos of nothing, I notice that not one of Abraxas’s portraits are to be found in the manor,” I commented during a lull in the conversation.

Narcissa looked confused. Severus, on the other hand, looked frightened. 

“Tell me, Severus, how did he die? Or rather, how was he killed?” 

Severus mopped a few beads of sweat from his brow.

“I will know if you lie. I always know.”

I did not think he required reminding, yet it would do no harm.

The story came in spills and bursts. He had been handsomely paid for a slow-acting poison. It had been implied that it had been under my orders. It was only after Abraxas’s death that Severus had realised who it had been for. 

~~~

“Lucius, I see that you have been occupied,” I told him, as I entered his study.

His anger at the intrusion was perfectly masked when he replied, “Honoured to receive you, my lord.”

He offered me a chair, poured me the finest scotch, and asked me if he should bank the fire. 

“I noticed that Abraxas’s portraits are not anywhere to be found in the manor.”

He looked uncomfortable. Then he said carefully, “My father died under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps that is the reason his portraits did not appear.”

“You are dying, Lucius. I commissioned the same poison.”

Lucius rose to his feet, eyes dark with rage and fear. 

“You!”

“I know why you funded the Aurors’s expedition to Albania. You wanted me dead thoroughly. You plot my death even now.”

“You fucked my father and ruined all of Pureblood society with your stupidity,” he spat, disgust long hidden surfacing on his features. 

“Why did you return when I called, Lucius?”

He did not reply. His wand was clenched tight in his hand. House Elves were trying to break in, responding to his distress. They had powerful magic, but I had been cautious. Godric’s Hollow had taught me caution. 

“You wanted to kill me. You knew that my body was weak. You knew that I would have few allies and had need of you. You wanted the glory.”

“You were a mistake, Riddle,” he said vehemently. “Your father should have put your mother down when he discovered her treachery. We would have been rid of your blight. Unwanted then, unwanted now.”

“I have given your wife to another man. She went freely. I have sent your son to the Continent. I have bought over your men. I have been poisoning you for weeks.” 

“Why tell me?” he asked. He tried to cast, but he could not. I had made sure of that. Caution. 

He growled and said, “I killed him. I had his body thrown into the Thames. I burned everything that bore his name or face. If you returned, I wanted you to have nothing left of him.”

~~~

After I had made sure that Lucius was dead, I called Narcissa and conveyed to her the tidings. She nodded solemnly and said that she would make arrangements.

~~~

I ended up that night by the Thames, near the Bridge, staring at the restless waters. Where had the son thrown his father’s body? Had it washed up somewhere on the dirty shores and had poor urchins ripped off clothing and silver? Had someone kind or religious buried it? Was there an unmarked grave somewhere? 

When I had returned, it had been with great eagerness that I had Summoned the Death Eaters, looking forward to see him. I had feared that he would have wasted away, but had been confident that he would not succumb. He, of all men, had known the measures I had taken to safeguard my life. He knew exactly what to do to return me to a corporeal body. I had been distraught when the years had passed and he had not done that.

I had not seen him. Later, I had taken Lucius aside and asked him. He had affected great sadness, and had said, “My lord, he died under mysterious circumstances. His wand was broken, his body was never found, and his dial on our family clock had pointed to dead.”

I had taken up residence in the Malfoy Manor, restlessly searching for clues - portraits, letters, anything that could tell me what had happened. Nothing had, for the longest time, until Greyback had spilled a part of the truth unintentionally. Severus had filled in the rest. 

Lucius had wanted to leave me no chances to return. He had wanted that badly enough to kill the father he had detested, the man I had returned for.

It was raining. It rained in London. Lucius was dead. Revenge was done. I stood on the bridge, staring at the waters, wondering what I would do next. I had to fight the war and be rid of Dumbledore. I had to reform the Ministry and the Wizarding World. What would be left after that?

I did not even have a grave that I could visit and kneel before. Dumbledore went on about remorse and love. I knew that was not the most potent emotion - it was grief. I had not wept in years, not after the age of eight, but I did now. It was an unpleasant thing to look upon, I suspected. My appearance was eldritch, and my howling sobs carried shrill over the wind and the rain. Dully, I wondered if a bobby happening upon the scene would tell me off. 

The boy stirred awake in my mind. I cursed. Of all the times to slip into my mind, did he have to choose this? He seemed curious, then jubilant, upon sensing my state. Then he was aroused. I laughed through my sobs. He was always aroused. I attempted to throw him out of my mind, and succeeded after a while. Good riddance.

I sat down upon the wet stones, leant my head against the iron rails, buried my face in my hands and let myself grieve. The rain provided me suitable company. 

At dawn, I collected my wits and returned to the Manor. I coaxed Nagini and left the place. I had no wish to be there. My purpose there was done. I had found my answers. 

Somewhere in London would suit me better. Perhaps Bella could furnish Walburga’s house in London. 

~~~


	2. Hogarth and the Wealth of Nations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Voldemort discovers that he has quite the aptitude to play the stock-exchange.

Bella found me a place in St. Giles. It was a far cry from the days of Hogarth, who had captured the gin, the syphilis and the poverty that had been the bane of this rookery decades ago. It was still a poor and dangerous neighbourhood. The house Bella had acquired was a few furlongs away from the old church’s vineyard. I could see the crowds entering and exiting the Tottenham Court Tube station. 

When Narcissa came by, bearing delicate silver-ware bearing the Malfoy crest, she was aghast.

“My lord, this is a den of vice!” She exclaimed, as she entered, trying in vain to get the mud of the street off her skirts. I helped her take her long coat off and seated her by the fire. 

“A den of vice would be suitable background for the Prophet’s coverage on me,” I told her, smiling at how she immediately rose to her feet and made her way to the large dining table. She quickly cast spells to clean the dust off the table, muttering to herself that she would bring a House Elf along the next time. She did not stop there. Meticulously, she began scouring the room, cleaning, arranging and rearranging the furniture and the tapestries. 

I went to inspect the silver-ware. They looked as if they had not been used in years. 

“I found this in the house at Rheims.”

Abraxas had loved Rheims. 

“I think they have been unused since Mr. Malfoy’s last visit,” she murmured. “I thought they would better serve you. I can have a smith remove the crest, if you wish.”

Narcissa was a clever woman. She was also capable of kindness once her son was out of harm’s way. 

“Let it be,” I told her. 

Abraxas had taken great pleasure in explaining to me the crest of his family. He had taken great pleasure in even the simplest of life’s moments. 

“May I clean the other rooms?” she asked, clearly wishing to. Dust and cobwebs did not constitute acceptable forms of decoration for her.

“As you wish,” I told her. Then I innocently continued, “It is not as if you haven’t seen all that I own.”

She blushed, ducked her head charmingly, and went upstairs. Her mind was full of remembered pleasures. It also held contentment and gratitude, associated with her current affair with Severus and my role in bringing that about. 

In my mind, the obsessed boy let me clearly know that he was sulking. He could sulk. He could sulk and be aroused, all at the same time. Remarkable creature.

~~~

Potter was obsessed with sex. It was impossible to nudge him towards the Department of Mysteries. He was, fortunately, a curious boy. When I kept my mind relaxed and my emotions calm, he reached out, curious but afraid, to see what I was up to. I decided to obsess over the Department of Mysteries. It ensured that he would too. 

~~~

“He is very stupid,” Severus opined. “He has good friends.”

“He is impulsive, Severus,” I corrected him. “I don’t believe he is stupid. He thinks well enough on his feet.”

“He is a teenager. They are all impulsive,” he said flatly. 

That was true. I mused upon it. 

“What was the name of Walburga’s son?” I asked. “The one you hate?”

“Sirius Black.”

“I require you to give me enough memories of your most recent interactions with this man.”

Severus complied. I spent the night crafting my path. I focussed half my mental resources on making sure that the boy was none the wiser. The rest I used to create memories of a gory, sexual encounter with Sirius Black, set conveniently in the Department of Mysteries. Just as I was done, the boy barreled in, curious as ever, to know what I had been doing. I summoned token resistance, before giving way to him. 

If Lucius had been alive, perhaps I would have entrusted him with leading the Death Eaters to the Department of Mysteries. He had had the most Ministry connections to sneak people in. He was dead. So I entrusted a lower-ranking paper-pusher to arrange this. It went well. 

The Order was there. I had sufficient confidence in Bella’s dueling and havoc-wreaking capabilities to consider them handled. There were children in the melee. I wondered why they had followed the boy. Loyalty was a strange business. Pettigrew had sought me out. The Lestranges had gone to Azkaban proudly. 

It was time to find the boy. I could not pinpoint his location through his mind, for it was full of rage and grief. Incoherence reigned and it took me effort to remain calm under the assault of so much turbulence. I felt Dumbledore’s magic in the halls. I knew that he would have made his way to the boy first, to protect him from me. I followed the old man’s conspicuous and very powerful magic to the Atrium.

“Hello, Tom,” he greeted me, eyes raking over my form and holding pity.

“Hello,” I replied and drew my wand. I was unsettled by the sight of him. He looked older, so old compared to when I had seen him last. Time had gone by. Abraxas was dead, we were no longer in the Slytherin Dormitories at Hogwarts, generations had passed, and Dumbledore was so old.

We duelled. His hand was steady and defiant, mine was quiet and cautious. Caution. Godric’s Hollow had taught me caution. I played to my strengths, avoided my weaknesses, and stayed carefully calm despite the turbulence in my mind. Turbulence that was not my own.

I felt the boy in the far corner of the room, behind a statue. I touched his mind. He screamed. I frowned, wondering what had changed. My distraction cost me, as spell-light scratched my robes. If I had not been as unusually thin as I was, and if that had not been masked by the robes, the spell would have hit true.

Then I screamed as something in the boy’s mind that was not him touched my mind. I was used to the eeriness of him in my mind. I was not used to this though - I was not used to being touched by me through him. I almost dropped my wand and Shield Charm both, only retaining possession at the last instant. 

Dumbledore stopped casting, looking worriedly at the boy and then directing a curious gaze at me. 

Everything coalesced then to the ugly truth. The bond, the curse, the scar, the prophecy, the wands - everything coalesced. I swerved from Dumbledore’s next spell, created some havoc near the boy so that Dumbledore would be distracted enough, and then commanded Bella to gather the Death Eaters and leave. Dumbledore turned around, wand aloft, other hand still on the boy’s shoulder. I bowed with a sardonic smile and then left, just in the nick of time, for as I Apparated, I heard the clang of the Atrium doors opening. 

It would not do to be on the front page of the Prophet.

~~~

“My lord, the boy smashed the prophecy.” 

“It is of no consequence. You acquitted yourself most remarkably on the field. I am proud of you,” I told Bella.

I had no idea what had happened in the fray. I did not care. I merely wanted everyone to leave while I came to terms with what I had learned. 

The boy held my Horcrux. 

It was the only explanation. What had touched my mind in the Atrium had not been the boy. It had been a touch savvy, suspicious and careful, in a way that the boy’s marauding never was. I knew the mind as well as I knew my own, and with good reason, for it was my own.

I dared touch his mind again. It unfurled to me easily, flooding me with his confusion, fear and anger. I enveloped it with my forced calm, soothing it, gently, until I could seek the tendrils of the other presence. It had withdrawn and remained wary. Yes, without a doubt I knew that it was my own.

The prophecy was of no consequence now. The boy could not be killed, not while he had this Horcrux. I needed to research the matter, to look into what my options were. Was there a way to transfer or absorb this piece?

Did Dumbledore know?

After Lucius’s death, I had felt dull. Now this mystery of my Horcrux in the boy reawakened my zest. 

~~~

“May I enter?”

It was Narcissa. Her hair was loose and her gown was thin. She held a basket full of oils. Her eyes were bright and blue as she met my gaze. She must have Apparated from Malfoy Manor dressed as she was. I wondered why she had not simply waited until the morning. Perhaps she could not stand the sights of St. Giles in the daylight and would rather visit while they were hidden by night’s sympathetic cloak.

“You must know what I came for,” she said quietly.

“I make it a point not to plunder anyone’s mind unless I know that they are lying. And I always know when they lie.”

Each spell had a cost. I had learned to ration magic, while I had wandered, while I had possessed rat and snake, bird and worm. I had been indiscriminate in the use of Legilimency and showy spells before. I had had to learn restraint, limited by capability and availability, when I had been without a body.

Narcissa’s fingers were trembling. I walked to her and took the basket from her, before leading her to the chair by the fireplace. She took a deep breath and said evenly, “I wanted to tell you that you were a generous lover, and that I am grateful for the attention. I had feared. I know now that I had no reason to. I want to tell you that I am grateful that you had weaned away my attraction and devotion to my late husband before you enacted your revenge. I am very grateful that you had sent my son away before that. I am very grateful that you brought Severus to me.”

I stared at her. All that I had done, I had done for my reasons. She knew that.

“I acquired the Daily Prophet,” she said quickly, as if afraid she would lose confidence. “I know that finances for your cause had been managed by Abraxas first and then by Lucius. I looked at the binders. I am sorry to say that the state of affairs is quite poor. Revenue from the Prophet profits should help the situation. The veto power over the paper certainly will be useful.”

She was a remarkable woman, was Narcissa. A few weeks of generous intimacy and sparing her son had been enough for her to take upon herself the task of repairing the finances for our cause. I thought of the children who had followed the boy to the Department of Mysteries. Loyalty, I had then mused, was a strange beast. 

I had never been any good at the art of coin. If Abraxas had not possessed the tremendous aptitude he had for money and raising it, our cause would have been stuck in a second-floor attic in a far-off village somewhere. Lucius had stepped into his father’s shoes. I had been gone. There had been nobody else. I had returned and had been busy with other matters. I had promised werewolves and other allies coin, but had not given much thought to the procurement of the same. After all, I had told myself, the heaps of gold in Gringotts that Abraxas had shown me all those years ago must be intact. 

I had forgotten that Lucius had heeded money better than I did. He had made sure that the accounts were depleted, of course. If not for Narcissa’s gratitude-inspired actions, I would not have discovered the fact of the depleted accounts until the time had come to pay my allies. That would not have led to an outcome which pleased me.

I was about to entrust her with the finances when the caution reared in me from Godric’s Hollow rose. It was best to learn how to do it myself. I had shirked away from doing finances, because I had known nothing and Abraxas was good at it, and I had trusted Abraxas. Perhaps it was time to at least establish the primary skills. 

After all, Narcissa would die one day and I had no intention to.

“You are as clever as you are beautiful,” I told her, making sure my voice was infused with appreciation and gratitude for her actions.

She blushed, and changed the subject, saying, “I brought oils for you. May I?”

I let her. Her ministrations were skilled. Her touch was pleasant. Her scent was familiar. The rhythm of her soft breathing helped me unwind after the long day.

Lulled into relaxation, I dared lower the strong shields in my mind that I had erected and immediately regretted it, as rage and grief so overwhelming took hold of me and shattered all the china in the room. The boy’s mind was dark and full of plots to do away with me in the goriest of ways. And the ideas aroused him. I was unsurprised by the arousal, but quite taken aback by the creative cruelty his imagination had unleashed.

I must have been startled quite. Narcissa looked afraid. Oil soaked my robes. It was unpleasant. 

“The boy,” I told my companion, with gritted teeth. “He is mourning the dog, and must make such a spectacle of it.”

I had not mourned Abraxas after I had returned. I had waited, patiently, biding my time. I had not cried a tear until I had killed Lucius. The boy did not know caution. He did not know patience. He let loose his emotions, instead of clinging to them fiercely and being motivated by them. 

I asked Narcissa to leave. She shook her head, face pale and grim, and called for a House Elf to repair the broken china and to clean away the oil. Then she took my hand in hers and gently led me to the bed. She helped me out of my robes and then came to me with a basin full of warm water and a wash-rag. I sensed that she no longer found me repulsive, though she did find me alien. She mopped me clean and then dried me gently, and I found in her hands the same caution that there was in mine when I cast spells. I wondered what had taught her caution. 

She did not speak, instead simply settling me under the duvet and then walking around the room, snuffing out the candles one by one. I was glad for her silence, for it took me concentration to keep tight shut the barriers that separated me from the boy. 

“I shall create a Portkey for you,” I told her. “Bring one of the candles.”

It was St. Giles, after all. I did not doubt that a woman like her would be wildly accosted as soon as she stepped out of the door. It would not do to lessen her good intentions by neglecting the small courtesies that pleased her so.

~~~

The next day found me nursing a concoction of pumpkin-juice and headache-draught, armed with a ream of paper and a fountain pen, and awaiting my guest. He arrived right on time, looking dubious and worried. 

“Mr. Martin,” I greeted him at the door, taking his hat, coat and gloves from him.

I had crafted charms powerful enough to Disillusion me for a few hours, but I had no charms that would make St. Giles look any better than it did. And no respectable London banker preferred this neighborhood as a first pick for a lucrative evening of coaching a client in the basics of economics. 

“Mr. Riddle,” he replied, looking around and raising his eyebrows at the conspicuous absence of family portraits.

“A bachelor’s quarters, I am afraid,” I told him, directing him to a chair and pouring him a glass of sherry.

Xavier Martin launched into a primer of economics, following it with a short explanation about the stock exchange and its underpinnings, politics and how it affected the value of our currency.

Pennies and pounds were complicated, but very interesting. I expected Galleons to be easier, but I suspected that the Goblins might have more arcane economics beyond the understanding of Wizarding folk. Only that would explain their profits.

However, the basic principles would carry over and I would be better prepared to deal with the Goblins. I found it all fascinating, as fascinating as I had once found runes. Perhaps Mrs. Cole had been right, all those years ago, when she had commented I would make a good stock-broker.

As he was leaving, Martin said, “You are quite bright and have strong mathematical bent. If you wish, I could write you a letter of recommendation for the evening classes at the London School of Economics.”

“I would appreciate that,” I told him sincerely. “I have certain matters to set right in my personal life. I will contact you after that.”

He left me Benjamin Graham’s “The Intelligent Investor” and Adam Smith’s “The Wealth of Nations”. I settled in for a long night of reading.

~~~ 

Two weeks later, I had managed to invest in certain stocks at the London Stock Exchange. Satisfied that I would not be duped by the Goblins, I requested a consultation from Gringotts.

The Goblin consultant and I rendezvoused at Malfoy Manor.

“Griphook,” he grunted.

“You know who I am,” I said. 

He nodded, not looking up at me. This was fear, in the land of Goblins. I must have done something right the first time around, if they feared me so.

I gave Griphook more cause to fear, as we went over the accounts, detail by detail. I suspected that I might have unduly impressed him with my financial acumen. We haggled over this and that, and that and this, until we had all the documents in order. 

“Would you like to invest in the Gringotts Gold Index Funds?” he asked, eyes shining with interest and appreciation.

Goblins thought the rest of us pitiable because of our lack of financial skills. Griphook, I sensed, was quite glad to meet someone who could speak money and speak it well, even if it was the appallingly ugly moral vacuum that went around killing people under the name of Lord Voldemort. Griphook had charming thoughts on my proclivities.

I ended up investing in their gold index funds. We had a lively discussion on mortgages before he left.

Perhaps I might have finally found something in common with the Goblins, I mused that night, as I sat in bed reading the Financial Times. 

I lowered my shields, and found the boy plotting murder. I calmed my mind and returned to the gripping story about the oil crisis and its effects on the pound.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

The London of my childhood had been Hogarth’s London. The London of my teenage years had been Churchill’s London. Now she was neither. She fascinated me, as I walked the old roads. The names were the same - Fleet Street, the Strand, Bond Street, Whitechapel. 

Hogwarts remained the same. The castle called to me. A sense of kinship remained - hadn’t she and I been wrought by the same man long ago? Her stones deep down remembered Salazar just as my blood did. 

Yet my blood no longer was mine, was it? The boy’s blood ran in my veins. Godric’s blood ran in my veins. Perhaps some of my followers would consider that unacceptable. I did not. Hogwarts had Four Founders. If I had the blood of them all in my veins, I would have considered myself fortunate. 

The boy broke my musings with his customary abandon. I tried to quiet my mind. He lost interest sooner if he sensed no turbulence. Like a foal trying to walk for the first time, a tendril of his mind tentatively, fearfully explored the calm of mine. I gently lulled him in the calm. Soon, I felt him leave. 

I had seven horcruxes. I mused upon it. The boy was proving difficult to kill. There were the relics of the Founders.

The horcruxes had done my mind no favours. Thinking had become harder with each horcrux. That had been easier to mask when Abraxas had been alive, when everything had been going well. Now, it had only raised rumours of insanity. They said in my ranks that insanity would do me in long before Potter did. They were not wrong. The soul I retained was unstable. Dangerous. 

I needed to go on a reclamation adventure. I would retrieve Salazar’s locket and keep it with me. I would reclaim the rest - Nagini, the cup, the ring, the diadem. The diary was destroyed. 

The boy was well-protected by Dumbledore. That, and the fact that I had no idea how to go about reclaiming my soul from a human being, meant that he would remain a horcrux. In a way, it guaranteed me immortality as long as he lived. 

It would be unfortunate if Nagini died in the process. I sighed. It had caused a great deal of mental and physical pain each time I had created one. Abraxas had nursed me faithfully back to health each time. Reclaiming them alone would be no easy feat. 

It had to be done. I had spoken more than I had intended to when I had returned. I knew that many of the cleverer Death Eaters or spies would have tried to find out what I had meant by those words (I, who had gone further than everyone else, on the path to immortality). If word had reached Dumbledore’s ears, he would have certainly put two and two together. 

Remorse was painful. I did not feel remorse. So that would not be my path. The way I would have to embark upon was more painful. 

~~~

I asked Severus and Bella to remain alert until I returned. They were curious but knew better than to ask me what my pressing errand was. I asked them to wait for twelve months before taking matters into their own hands. 

The next few months were full of pain and blurred memories. I put my hell-wrought determination to good use, not stopping after the first, though I had badly wanted to. I locked myself in my house, warded it tight, and went through the horror all by myself. I woke sometimes lucid to find myself in a pool of blood and vomit, my skin bleeding from where I had bitten down in pain or clawed myself bloody. 

It was down to the cup and Nagini. Nagini had become increasingly distressed with the weeks. Perhaps the soul fragment in her had warned her. She distrusted me and would not approach me. I was weak, weaker than a newborn foal, and I knew that I had to go on. I tried to cage her, but she lashed out, her large body easily toppling me down to the floor. She began coiling around me, hissing curses and threats, as I choked. I tried in vain to cast, but my strength was a wisp of what it had been before I had embarked on this journey. 

It would be ironic to die at the hands of a possessed snake that bore my soul. Yet, irony rules life.

“Diffindo!” I heard someone scream, and Nagini reared but did not let me go.

They continued casting until Nagini fell beside me. “Don’t kill her!” I rasped. I needed my soul fragment intact. 

“My lord!” Narcissa exclaimed, running to my side, her nose scrunched up in distaste. 

She caged the snake, then unleashed a torrent of cleaning spells on me. Only after that did she venture closer.

“We should leave,” she told me.

“Why?” 

Then I realised why. I could hear the sounds of fighting outside the house. The wards were down. 

“What do you want taken with us?” she asked.

“The snake, and the cup on the mantel,” I said.

She nodded briskly, created a Portkey, collected the cage and the cup, shrank them and pocketed them, then grabbed me by the elbow.

I ended up falling to my knees and vomiting on her fine carpet. She put her cleaning spells to good use again. Sighing, she undid the Shrinking spells on the cup and the cage, then called a House-Elf and asked it to guard them. 

I tried to get up, but that proved to be too much, and I fainted. 

When I woke, I was on a bed, the linens were clean, and Narcissa had managed to stick a lot of needles on my arms. It looked as if it were a scene from a Muggle novel.

“For nutrition,” she said, seeing my gaze rest on the needles. “Magical methods did not work.”

“Why were the wards down?”

She cast her eyes away, looking uncomfortable.

I endeavoured to sit up. She cleared her throat and said quietly, “It was in the Quibbler. I managed to keep it out of the Daily Prophet. Mr. Potter had given interviews stating confidently that you were dying. Professor Dumbledore endorsed his opinion. Our men were greatly worried, due to your disappearance and Mr. Potter’s confidence. The wards came down a few weeks ago on the house. Bella had her best men guarding the house. Then today there was an attack by the Order. I was sent word when the attack began. I wanted to make sure that you were out of there, regardless of how it went. I would apologise for my intervention, but I cannot, not after seeing the state of matters.”

The connection between our minds. My pain had not been hidden. It had crushed my mental defences. The boy could not have gained any coherent thought from my mind, but he had certainly been able to gauge the pain. Little wonder why he had so confidently stated that I was dying. I would not have disagreed with his prognosis myself. 

“It was easier when Lucius was alive,” Narcissa said softly, still refusing to meet my gaze. “He was a careful man.”

She looked careworn and older. There was dark circles under her eyes and her hair was askew. 

“Severus is a careful man too,” I told her, wondering why she would make the comment.

“You aren’t,” she said harshly, biting down on her lips as if afraid she had said something which would cost her greatly. 

For a moment, I was taken aback by her vehemence. I looked at the decor. It was Malfoy Manor. It was perhaps the same bedroom where I had convalesced when being nursed back to health by her father-in-law. His eyes had held the same recriminations she had voiced, but he had known better than to voice them. 

~~~

It took me a few days before I trusted my health had improved enough to make an attempt on reclaiming the horcrux from Nagini. I locked myself in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor this time, cautioning Narcissa to not enter. 

She did not, at least not until my wards fell as I was incapacitated by the pain. This time, she voiced no recriminations. She did bring me a copy of the Quibbler. A picture of the boy gave me a confident smile, under blaring headlines that announced that I was dying. I wanted so badly to touch his mind, to let him learn to fear again. Not now, I cautioned myself. Not until the cup was done with. 

~~

A few weeks later, I was taking tea alone in Narcissa’s parlour, when Severus came in. He looked unhealthily pale and there were frowns lining his face that had not been there before.

“My lord, we are glad to see you hale.”

I sensed what he was not saying. I sensed the same anger and feeling of betrayal that Narcissa reeked of now. 

“I would have returned, you know,” I told him. “I knew what it meant.”

He bowed deep, but his disbelief remained unchanged. 

~~~

It took me weeks of effort after that to reassure my ranks. In some cases, it required casting the Cruciatus on idiots who thought that I was too weak to punish them for belligerence. Such situations pleased me. I knew what to do. 

Bella was quite distraught when she saw me. Narcissa shot a dark glance at me, as if to let me know how much more distraught Bella would have been had she been the one to fetch me from St. Giles. I settled for telling Bella that she had done admirably in the months I had been away. Perhaps praise would suffice to conquer her distress. 

I touched the boy’s mind. It was full of bravery and fear. I wondered what situation he had landed himself in to require that combination. I let my mind calm and touched his again. A lake full of Inferi. 

I had done well to act as quickly as I had in reclaiming the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had not wasted time. 

I thought about this. One of them would have to drink the potion. The Headmaster would not let the boy do that. I took a deep breath and Apparated to the cave by the ocean. It was time to end the old man’s life. Potter was powerful, but Potter was not wise. I needed Dumbledore out of my way and this was as suitable a time as any other. 

I entered the cave and walked to the lake. I could see the boat bobbing its way towards me, fire encircling it to keep the Inferi at bay. I waited patiently, until they spotted me. Potter saw me first, and he clung to Dumbledore’s hand as if to reassure himself that the old man was still standing.

“Tom,” Dumbledore rasped, as the boat came closer.

He was holding up remarkably well despite the poison. I held out my hand to him courteously, to help him alight from the boat. Potter cursed and shot a Stinging Hex at my outstretched hand. I deflected that easily.

“Let Harry go,” Dumbledore said quietly, as he took my hand and stepped onto the land. I could smell the poison on his breath, rancid and final. 

I tilted my head, as if contemplating the request. I had made up mind before I had come here. He did not need to know that.

“No!” Potter cursed, and rage and arousal reared in him equally. He stood between Dumbledore and I, his wand outstretched and sparks flying from it fueled by his emotions.

I wondered how much they knew. I was not strong. I had not recovered from my ordeal with the Horcruxes yet. Dumbledore was dying. It would have been foolish to come here otherwise. 

I sensed magic being built around us. Dumbledore. It was powerful and it would certainly leave him drained. I waited patiently. Would he imbue Harry with protection? Would he attempt to destroy the Horcrux? 

“Sectumsempra!” the boy screamed.

My wards held, but the clang of his casting against them hurt me more than I had anticipated. If not for the reclamation of the Horcruxes and the return of my mental stability, I would have immediately lashed out.

Now I waited. 

The boy continued casting. When that failed, he snarled and charged at me, eyes blazing green in rage. My wards still held and he bounced off.

A gust of wind heralded Dumbledore’s magic. It spun and spun, enveloping us, gentle to the boy and implacable towards me, and when it crested, the locket broke into pieces. With a sigh, Dumbledore fell to his knees and closed his eyes, satisfied. 

“Expelliarmus,” I said quietly, and his wand came to me. Dumbledore moaned, in protest.

The boy roared and cast, but I would not raise wand against him, not when I knew of the consequences. Brother-wands. 

I walked closer to Dumbledore and gripped his chin. His eyes were unfocussed. “I will leave the cave open,” I told him. “The Inferi will not rise. Go home and die.”

If the Inferi rose, the boy would not survive. I very much wanted the boy to survive. I had clung fierce to the dream of killing Dumbledore. It had provided solace and motivation in those long years. He was dying now, and the boy had fed him the poison that was killing him. Let the boy bear the guilt. Flinging a Killing Curse was pointless at this juncture: I would derive no enjoyment in wasting magic on a dying man and the boy would only find it a convenient excuse to escape his guilt.

I could have told them the locket was a fake, that Regulus had taken the original, that it had been filched from the Black house and sold to Umbridge, and that Umbridge had been killed and the locket returned to my possession. I saw no reason to. Let them believe what they chose to. Let them believe that I was down by one Horcrux. 

Dumbledore’s wand warmed to my hand. I sensed old magic. I had felt, long ago, at Hogwarts, that there was something about this wand that had called to me. I did not know yet what it was. I would need to look into it. 

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

The boy’s mind was an inferno. Full of dark rage and mad plots, it roared for revenge. Who knew that the boy would turn out to be so bloodthirsty? I tried to lull his mind into calmness and to glean some insight into his actions, but I was blocked at every turn by the dark tapestry of his emotions. 

I tried, every day, in vain.

Meanwhile, I plotted my return to power. 

I had seen the boy in the cave. He had been powerful, but he had posed no challenge. He had no mentors left. Severus I had bound to my cause. Dumbledore was dead. It was possible that McGonagall or Shacklebolt had taken him under their wing, but I knew that neither could prepare the boy as Severus or Dumbledore might have done. 

Severus was of great use to me. He carefully and painstakingly drafted plans for training our men, for the raids that he thought necessary, for infiltrating the Ministry and for negotiations with our allies. His devotion made it possible for me to indulge in the Gringotts Stock Exchange and reaping profits. I was chuffed when the Goblins changed their daily trading limits to threshold my profits. 

Bella led the raids. I had been reluctant to let her, given her past record of great emotional derailment during such activities. I wanted someone capable and ruthless, who would not lose sight of the goal in the face of petty emotional scuffles. Yet, Bella had suffered the most, wasted youth and beauty away in Azkaban for me. It would not have sent the right signal to newer recruits if I had chosen to give command to someone else. Loyalty must be rewarded, for troop morale. Bella managed relatively well, though I suspected that she lingered more than was safe at her raiding locations, courting capture or death. 

 

~~~

I had thought that very little would surprise me. Yet, I found myself mistaken, when Bella came to me after a raid, blood on her robes and the flush of victory high on her cheeks, to give me the tidings of her adventure.

It was not the tidings that surprised me. They involved the usual amount of macabre cruelty that anything involving Bella demanded. It was that I could sense magic that was not hers emanating thick from her. 

For a moment, I thought that she had merely indulged in some of her sadomasochistic pleasures with the prisoners. Unlikely. She did not touch Half-bloods or Mudbloods. Perhaps with her husband? They had seemed to be in accord earlier this week. Yet, this was not her husband’s magic. I sniffed, much to Bella’s discomfort. I congratulated her for the successful raid and quickly dismissed her, so that I might return to thinking about that strange magic.

I frowned then. Could it be that the blasted woman had managed to conceive? How inconvenient! She had years in Azkaban to indulge in this business, if she had wanted to. 

Dumbledore was dead, the Ministry was infiltrated thanks to Severus’s careful plans, and my newfound financial acumen ensured that we had coin enough to buy those who would have to be bought. I needed Bella to train our men and to lead them to victory. 

How very inconvenient. 

I did not seek out Narcissa often. Yet, that day, unsettled by Bella’s possible pregnancy, I invited myself over to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa came to welcome me, her eyes shining bright blue and her clothes delightfully rumpled. 

“I see that Severus has been most dutiful to you,” I remarked. 

She blushed, then cast me a reproachful look, and called for tea.

After the House-Elf had left the tea-tray, I inched forward and asked politely, “Shall I be mother?”

She looked at me uncomprehendingly for a long instant before letting loose a most unladylike giggle. 

Now that she was properly comfortable in my company, I asked her, “Would you happen to have noticed that Bella seems to be different?”

She thought for a moment before replying, “She is now living with her husband again. They have settled their differences.”

“That must explain her unusual cheerfulness,” I said blandly. 

Narcissa knew nothing of it. Bella was close to her sister, though her sister did not quite reciprocate the closeness. If she had not burst upon Narcissa with the news yet, then there was likely no news. I would keep watch, all the same.

~~~

I had not known what a mind for minutiae I had until I began keeping an eye on Bella. She did not wear her high-heeled boots one day. Did that mean that she was pregnant? She looked pale another day. What might that mean? 

I did even wander down to Piccadilly and pick up a few tomes on pregnancy from Hatchard’s. From what little I gleaned of the process, it certainly would appeal to Bella’s love for gore.

In my mind, the Potter boy complained most vociferously about my obsession with Bella. He also seemed to be orgasming more than once a day, spurred by my obsession. Who knew that my musings upon Bella’s heels would set him off? 

One day, apropos of nothing, as I sat in Narcissa’s bright solarium reading the financial section of the Prophet while Severus sat with me feverishly muttering to himself and scribbling on parchment plans for his next raid, I asked him, “Do you suppose a certain kind of man would find Bella more attractive than her sister?”

He replied absently, “Those who like to live dangerously, and teenagers.”

That made sense then. I returned to my financial juggling and he resumed his feverish scribbling. My mind, by now, was so carefully adept at tuning the boy’s arousal and rage away so that it could focus on the relevant.

~~~

Narcissa approved not of my new house in St. Giles (acquired after the last one had been burnt to cinders in the fray during my hibernation). 

One day, when she had decided to set aside her qualms and set foot in my domicile, she made her displeasure known by darting glances at the window. It was snowing and poorly dressed men loitered around the train station.

I wisely pulled her into a discussion of the finances. 

She finished going over the Prophet profits with me. We had discussed the possibility of paying new recruits a stipend. Narcissa had balked at that proposal, saying fiercely that it would attract the wrong cadre. Later, however, she had suggested that we put into place a benefit system that would provide for the cadre and their immediate dependents when need arose. It would require conferring with Griphook of Gringotts again. I looked forward to the inevitable haggling. 

Now Narcissa stood before the mantelpiece, looking pointedly at the dust on the silver-ware. 

“Perhaps a House-Elf might be in order,” she murmured.

“Their voices are not conducive to any activity requiring focus, Narcissa.”

“I beseech that you accept my plea to bestow upon me the honour of hosting you until this place is fit for habitation,” she said.

Her curt tone was as far from beseeching as Luther had been from the Pope. I was about to remark upon that, when a shrieking House-Elf popped into the room, flailing and wailing, and blowing its nose.

“What the-”

“Mistress Cissy! Your sister!”

Narcissa blanched in worry, before setting about to the task of calming the House-Elf down. I retreated to the far corner of the room, as far from the shrillness as I could possibly be. Bella had been leading a raid. 

Sharp knocking on the front door disrupted the scene. It was Severus.

He did not waste time, saying sharply, “Bellatrix’s raid has not been successful. They are surrounded by Aurors and being picked off like flies. Potter is there. He seems keen on avenging Black.”

“What are the odds?” I asked him.

He cast Narcissa a worried look before saying quietly, “It is lost, my lord. The boy fights as if possessed.”

Possessed. I thought darkly upon the time I had tried to touch the boy’s mind and found a sliver of mine there. 

I was broken out of my thoughts by Narcissa, who rushed to me and clasped her hands, tears flowing down her cheeks pale. 

“Spare me the hysterics,” I told her sharply, discomfited by her unusual loss of composure. “It is in my best interests to have Bella around, mad and safe.“

It was. Bella had turned out to be a surprisingly good strategist and leader on the field. It benefited me greatly to ensure her well-being. Men followed her into battle unafraid, as if inspired by her mad devotion to the cause. Her fiery speeches and wild wand-work had become legendary. 

~~~

I found the battle-ground strewn with corpses and severed limbs. I raised my eyebrows. This was not a clean fight. 

I knew where to walk to, undetected by all. The turbulence in the boy roared as a siren. Even otherwise, I would have known where to walk to, for men and women stood in a circle, varying expressions of fear on their faces, watching what unravelled. I recognised the boy’s sidekicks. The girl was clutching the boy, her expression tearful. 

When I arrived, my eyes widened in surprise. The boy was there, as was Alastor Moody. They danced a beautiful synchronised dance of death, a dance of the wild, powerful mentored and, canny, experienced mentor. There was an impermeable shield cast around them, enveloping them from the fray, as they danced around their victim. The woman was on her knees, drawing ragged breaths and bleeding heavily from the eyes. Eyes. Their magic had gouged out her eyes.

“You are here, Voldemort!” the boy crowed then, looking straight at me, despite the spells I had cast. 

I could not hide, not from him. What a fate that night had bound us to, indeed! 

“I am here,” I said calmly, walking towards the envelope. Moody smirked. Bella did not seem to register the tidings. What had they done to her? 

“You are late. We have killed them all,” the boy spat. “Only she is left. I wanted to take my sweet time with her.”

“She has lost, Mr. Potter!” I heard Minerva McGonagall’s voice say. “Kill her cleanly!”

Behind me, I heard Narcissa scream. She had followed me. I should have remembered to seal her shut until this had been done with. Emotional men and women were of little use in situations as this. And the Blacks won no prizes for rational thinking amidst danger. 

Potter conjured poison ivy and wrapped Bella in that. The plant’s torment on her wounds must have been terrible, for she screamed as if she was in the birthing ward. The birthing ward! Bella had her hands cupped over her womb. Anyone else might have thought that it was merely a wound. I knew better. I had seen the signs. 

I endeavoured to be calm. I needed to bring down the envelope that enclosed Potter. It was possible that Bella was bleeding to death and that nothing could save her life. I could not underestimate Potter. He had, cleverly, screened his plans with arousal and turbulence, and I had had no inkling as to his true activities.

When he walked towards me, his eyes blazing in determination, I knew that there would be no saving Bella. It would, however, be very useful to at least kill Potter’s mentor. Mad-Eye Moody had been a thorn in my side for long. 

I glanced around. There were Aurors and there were Death Eaters. Severus had arrived, with reinforcements. There was the boy’s friends, frightened but ready to stand by him, their faces grim and their wands held at the ready.

“Nobody fights,” I said calmly. The Aurors shouted spells at me, but their wands did not cooperate.

Good. Magical focus as sharply honed as mine was very useful.

Now onto the grimmer matter. I turned to the envelope again. It was deviously constructed and bore the stench of the boy’s magic. Such power, unbridled. 

“You killed him slowly, you bitch,” Potter spat, as he circled Bella’s form, occasionally kicking her. She was whimpering. It unsettled me. Bella was not a weak woman. What had Potter done? 

“I am going to kill you slowly.” he stated then. 

He looked at me, smirked, then looked at Severus, pointed his wand at Bella, and said clearly, “Sectumsepra!”

She screamed as if she was dying. I cursed. Narcissa fainted. Many women screamed and looked away. He had aimed the curse at Bella’s stomach, and he held my gaze, his eyes holding knowledge, knowledge he had stolen from my mind, knowledge of her pregnancy. 

I had underestimated him so. He had been in my mind, all along, carefully gleaning information. Not again, I swore.

I willed my magic to break the envelope and it obeyed. It was effortful, but I knew not to shirk away from effort in times of need. The boy looked shocked and the Auror looked worried. I cast again and again, flinging spells in all directions, mainly to confuse them, until I arrived closer.

Trapping the Auror in a slowly constricting cage of iron was easy. The boy’s reaction, however, was to fling a spell at Bella, slowly pulling out her womb and what it contained. She screamed, and for a moment I thought that I should kill her, and put her out of misery. She had served me well. She deserved a better death.

“Your parents and Albus Dumbledore would be horrified at this,” I remarked, walking closer to the boy.

“They are all dead,” he said sharply. “I am alive.”

“The Boy Who Wouldn’t Die, indeed,” I riled him, approaching. His reaction was to cut off the umbilical cord that connected foetus to womb.

“I will kill her cleanly,” he said, clouding our minds both with rage and calculation. “I want something from you though.”

I knew what he wanted.

“Dumbledore’s wand.”

“Sentimental?” I asked. “Why would you want an old man’s wand for granting her a clean death?”

“I know it is the Elder Wand,” he said calmly, and I wondered how he could sound so calm when his mind was a tempest. “Hermione looked into it.”

Around us, the people gasped. I wondered if the boy had planned this meticulously. The Elder Wand. The Death Stick. The indefatigable. I had heard the tales. Who hadn’t? I remembered the legends surrounding Grindelwald. I remembered Dumbledore’s confidence. 

The boy had stated it as if he knew that I knew of the wand’s identity. I hadn’t, until he had told me. I filed that nugget away. 

“Tom?” Potter asked. 

He was feeling confident indeed, if it had come to that despised Muggle name.

Bella was whimpering and sobbing, trying desperately to knot together the cord from her womb back to the foetus. I marveled at the boy’s streak of cruelty. What had he been doing since Dumbledore’s death?

My followers stood there, helpless, as they watched. I thought of how they loved following Bella into battle. I thought of the finances, and of Narcissa, and of Lucius’s treachery. I needed to at least attempt to save Bella, to come across as someone who defended their own. Loyalty. It was a strange game, but a necessary one. 

I had not lost to Dumbledore despite the wand. Dumbledore had not lost to Grindelwald despite the wand. Potter was powerful, but I was experienced. And I could not die, not while he lived. It would not do to lose to Potter, but I had no wish to stay near him after getting my hands on Bella. There would be another day. He had frightened everyone with his display of cruelty. Now it was time for me to show loyalty to my own and end the day. 

“Take the wand,” I said.

He frowned and said mockingly, “Icky Bella is more precious than that wand?”

“Mr. Potter, if I may advise you?” came a reedy voice from the crowd.

Ollivander. He looked worried.

“I know,” Potter said firmly. “I know that it has to be taken.”

His Expelliarmus was powerful. The wand resisted going over. I stayed limp and Potter looked jubilant when his fingers clenched around the black of the wand. The crowd erupted into shouting, some exhorting the boy to be rid of me. The Death Eaters looked frightened. The tales of the wand were known to all. 

“I am a man of my word,” Potter sneered, and pushed Bella towards me. She collapsed at my feet but I pulled her upright, vanished the poison ivy and chanted a spell to cleanly severe the foetus from her womb, before setting magic to sew her womb shut. Then I tended to her eyes, using magic to stem the bleeding and to cover the wounds. Good.

“Hear!” I said, shouting. “All who follow me will have my protection!”

Then I cast spells to raise the foetus off the ground and to envelop it in a chamber the likes of which Muggles used to care for prematurely born infants. These were spells I had developed for myself, when I had been a soul seeking a body and living off possessing rodents and snakes. Wormtail had not cast them with as much focus as I had, and I had been weak until I could obtain this body. Later, during the time I had spent reading those gory pregnancy books, I had refined my spells to factor in the various needs of a foetus, should I ever have the forsaken existence of those twelve years and have to undergo the steps to acquire a new body again.

“It is a girl. Be ready to name her in four months,” I told Bella. “Narcissa, take your sister and the child away.”

“Very impressive, Tom,” Potter said. “Sustaining life through Dark Magic. Will she grow up to be as ugly as you?”

His gaze was dark now and foreboding tightened his brow. There was fear in his mind and ruthless determination. Underpinning it all was the boy’s arousal, as steady as pulse. I did not understand Harry Potter. 

“Let us duel,” he said, sketching a dainty bow. 

I did not bow, wary of the wand that he held so confidently.

“Bow, Tom. Bow to death,” he mocked me. “You taught me dueling etiquette, after all.”

I had taught the boy many things. I had taught him to survive and his survival instinct rivaled mine. I had taught him, unwittingly, how to use the wretched bond that connected us. 

When he lifted the wand, in a gesture reminiscent of my own in the graveyard, I bowed quickly. It would not do to be forced to bow by that powerful wand.

“So obedient,” the boy crooned. His eyes glowed like the basilisk’s. His mind was a dark pit of arousal. 

I understood him finally, as I stared at him. He was aroused by this, by the prospect of my defeat, by the prospect of my death at his hands. He thought that he was meant to own me, to deal me death or life or slavery as he chose. He would not kill me cleanly, but would toy with me, before everyone, until I broke and begged him for death, and each moment would arouse him.

Perhaps it would have been easier to defeat him if Dumbledore had been alive to rein him in. 

“Tarantallegra!” 

I spun away from the spell. Walburga Black had once commented that I moved with more grace than a woman. Abraxas had admired my duelling, just as he had admired my dancing. The acts weren’t very different, after all. 

Potter was a solid wall of magic, he chose not to move, instead defending and attacking with confidence. The Death Stick was the most powerful magical artifact I had faced. It was unrelenting, as was his determination. I swerved and danced, to the song of his magic, avoiding deftly, looking for my opportunity, for I knew there would be an opportunity, even with the Death Stick and Potter’s keenness to see me lose. Now, more than ever, I was grateful for my foresight to reabsorb the Horcruxes. I needed the focus. 

I could hear the crowd’s murmurs, about my grace. As I spun once more, I noticed Ollivander’s face, drawn and pale. It cost magic that would better serve me to stay safe, but gut instinct struck and I cast Legilimency on the wand-maker. It cost me, as I had known it would, as Potter’s curse struck my arm and my wand leapt away. My spell to keep the crowd from casting magic died, but nobody began fighting. They stood there, engrossed, as Potter walked towards me, as regally as Caesar himself. 

We were very close and I could feel his breathing on my skin. I could smell his arousal. He must have seen my nostrils flare, because he grinned madly and said, “Maybe I can humiliate you, even more, before all of them.”

Timing. Timing was crucial. I waited until he touched my cheek with the wand (and it was as sharp as a dagger), drawing blood by cutting deep unto my mouth, and drew it downwards, down my neck and ripping through my robes down my chest. 

Then I reached through our bond, deep and long, until I touched the part of me trapped in him. It rose to meet me, Potter shrieked because of the pain but cast a curse that broke all my bones. He looked jubilant as I collapsed. This, this was the opportunity. 

I closed my eyes, shut out the pain with effort, and drew my magic around me. He was powerful, but I had reclaimed those Horcruxes and the magic in them. I was not as powerful as I once had been, but I certainly was more powerful than him, and I had not forgotten the Elder Wand’s lust for magic. My magic rose, as it had not ever done in my past before, coming to my call, repairing my bones, and with a surge the Elder Wand wrested itself from Potter’s grip into mine. I spat out blood and rose to my feet. 

Potter staggered back, and raised his holly wand. He was a brave boy.

“What shall I do with you?” I wondered aloud. “You have given me ideas.” 

He paled. 

He did not know what I knew. He did not know what was in him. He would investigate, I knew, after this day’s events, but it would take him time. The knowledge was not easy to come by. 

I could not kill him. I could not let him be, not while he had his vendetta, not after today’s display of power and intent. I could take one of his friends captive, but I suspected that he would not let that influence his trouble-making overly much. 

This was a conundrum. 

I brought my yew wand forth. Slowly, carefully, I spoke the words to bind his wand to mine, younger brother to elder brother. He would find himself in agony should he attempt to wreak harm on me, in thought or act, while he held this wand. He might obtain a different wand, of course, but I knew that he would not, not unless he could get his hands on the Elder Wand. 

It worked immediately, as he fell to knees collapsing in pain. Dear me, the boy was full of ill-intent towards me.

“Goodbye, Harry,” I said quietly, sketching a bow. 

When he looked up, his eyes promised vengeance.

Before I Disapparated, I made sure to kill Moody. 

~~~

The following days were hectic. 

My act on the battlefield to save Bella and the child, along with Potter’s gory display, had mellowed public opinion on my character. Narcissa took advantage, spinning articles in the Prophet. 

Men who served me wanted to meet me. For once, they were not afraid. Instead, they knelt and proclaimed loyalty, and told me how proud they were to serve me. I did not care for the familiarity, but their devotion for reasons other than fear was good for my cause. 

Severus was shaken and quiet in the days following, perhaps because the boy he had seen Lily in was now a man with little mercy. Good. It would thoroughly take care of his divided loyalties. 

Narcissa had cornered me after I had retreated to St. Giles, showering me with gratitude and House-Elves to clean the house. 

Bella herself was a different tale. She had withdrawn into herself, speaking not even to her husband or to her sister, chanting lullabies and cupping her womb. Despite Narcissa’s attempts to convince her that the child was safe, she did not believe. She screamed in her sleep and spewed vile threats at random household objects that somehow in her mind warped to take on Potter’s form. She clawed at her face, and broke open again and again the dressings that were on the gouged caverns where her eyes had been. We had once thought her mad. We had not then realized what true madness was. 

When visiting Malfoy Manor, I often walked to the room where was suspended in a casement of fluid and gas the growing foetus. Potter had claimed that the girl would grow up to be as ugly as me, because of the Dark Magic. I wondered if I wished for that to be true, if I wished for a companion in my unnatural appearance. Idly, I often mused about Bella aging and then plotting to have her ugly daughter marry her ugly lord. 

Then I would walk back to the main hall only to see Narcissa pleading with Bella to stop clawing at herself. It was an unpleasant sight.

~~~ 

The boy’s dreams mixed sex and sadism. I stayed awake, even after the disreputable loiterers on the streets of St. Giles had fallen down into drunken stupors for the night, pensively inspecting the Elder Wand and cursing my instinct to take claim of it from Dumbledore. It would have been better if the wand had been buried with him. Now not only did I have to contend with the boy, I would also have to fret about the wand’s curse that had hunted down each of its previous bearers.

When sleep finally caught up with me, I dreamed of Abraxas at thirty, married and regretful, asking me, “When did all of this turn so complicated?”

~~~


	5. Chapter 5

There was a lull in the war. They called it the era of watchfulness. Both the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet carried mundane news articles that spoke of cautious optimism and rebuilding in Wizarding Society. 

Normality, or at least a semblance of it, was wide-spread. 

Severus continued his training and recruiting activities. Narcissa continued taking care of her sister. 

The boy was quiet. I had received news that he was in Toulouse, with the rest of the Order, regrouping. I had learned my lesson the hard way to not underestimate him, so I did not attempt to touch his mind at all. 

I was at loose ends, with little to occupy me. I even half-heartedly thought of devoting myself to learning healing magic in more depth, to see if I came across anything that could remotely improve my appearance. To this end, I browsed through the tomes in the Malfoy library. They, of all of us, must have collected books that dealt with beauty and vanity.

I had moved past remedies for eczema and warts, for hair-loss and weight-gain, for penis enlargement and for perky breasts, and I had not yet found anything of utility. It was incredibly amusing to peruse the collection, regardless. So, it was on a bright winter afternoon, that the lady of the manor found me propped against a section on virility, engrossed in an old book about erectile dysfunction and how it could be cured by eating a tiger penis. 

“It must be a new development,” she remarked mildly, laughter in her voice, arranging herself by the window in a very attractive manner, so that the dappled sunlight through the stained-glass struck her figure flatteringly. 

“I have different concerns,” I told her briskly, putting the book back in its place and walking along the aisle, looking at the titles.

“Warts?” she questioned me innocently. “I remember none.”

I was reminded of Abraxas, seated by the same window, while I had held the same book in my hands. He had asked me to read sections from these books aloud to him, and had laughed in glee when I had affected great solemnity while reading.

I looked at the woman. She looked tired and there were large dark circles under her eyes. 

“You were an eldritch creature when I first saw you, on my wedding day,” she remarked softly. 

I had been handsome then, the cynosure of women’s eyes. I walked to Narcissa, and she smiled tiredly, raising her fingers to my left cheekbone and brushing my skin gently, with the gentleness that she affected when handling her fine cutlery. I could sense her goodwill, her affection even, and her disregard for my appearance. Perhaps she had merely become acclimated.

I did not curse her, as I once might have. Touch too had become a welcome thing, after those long years. I had craved even for Wormtail’s touch. I wondered if Narcissa knew that she was the only one who had touched me voluntarily since my resurrection. It was for the best that she did not. She took liberties, as it was.

I thought of the boy. He was indulging in touch, I could tell. There was the youngest Weasley, a very beautiful woman. 

“Will you stay for dinner, my lord?”

“Run for Minister.”

~~~

It took much persuasion, but with Severus’s aid, I managed to convince the blighted woman to run for the Minister’s post. 

She did not comprehend what it would serve. It would serve me a great deal. 

Public opinion was split, there were well-remembered tales of my cruelty and there was Potter’s display of the macabre with Bella that I had put an end to, at the risk of great cost to myself. 

Fudge was running again. There was talk of Scrimgeour’s candidacy. 

I wanted neither Fudge nor Scrimgeour. I wanted someone sensible enough to handle the matters of the state without requiring my attention, and someone loyal enough to bring the important decisions to me. 

Narcissa was ideal. She appealed to the women, for she was a female candidate. She appealed to the men, for she was a beautiful female. She appealed to the rich, for she was rich. She appealed to those who had borne the costs of war, due to her widowed status. She could carry herself exceedingly well, was both demure and cunning, and came across as exceedingly air-headed. 

Ideal.

Madam Malkin wove Narcissa new black robes, to mark her widowhood. Severus wrote candid, softly-worded, emotional speeches for her. Her words were chosen with care, to appeal to those who found Rufus too harsh or Fudge too ineffectual. Her campaign promises involved mostly pensions, employment generation and education. They stayed clear of political agenda or defense policy direction. 

Both the Prophet and the Quibbler spoke of the tender-hearted woman who had sought office to soothe the Wizarding World’s troubles that had been caused by men and their wars. The Quibbler said that she was inexperienced, but remarked that Fudge was the most experienced politician in the fray, the implication being that inexperience might not be the worst fault in a politician. Yet, the Quibbler mentioned, Narcissa Malfoy’s late husband had been accused more than once of Death-Eater activities, and her sister had been responsible for the torture and killing of many. Severus tried to offset that in the campaign speeches by making Narcissa speak of her dutiful nature, first to her family, then to husband and son, and now to the Wizarding World. Service, she said, was her vocation. Did she not care dutifully for her sister, despite everything? 

Many would vote for the Auror, I knew. He promised an end through hunting down the trouble-makers. He promised grim times, followed by lasting peace. He was a sensible man, everyone said, and an experienced soldier.

~~~

Hogwarts was happy to see me. Minerva McGonagall was not. She had stayed behind, entrenched as the Headmistress, though the rest of the Order was now in France. 

When I arrived at the gates, alone, she came down to receive me, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. I had written to her about my intention to visit. She had acquiesced. She could hardly have done otherwise, with the power balances being what they were. 

She, undoubtedly, held dear to some notion of Dumbledore’s, to protect the children. I was no threat to the children, but why would I tell her that and rob myself of her cooperation? She was a powerful woman, and usually sensible, and it would be wasteful to kill her. A day might come when I would have to.

“I am surprised that your candidate did not revert her name back to Black,” was her first remark.

We had thought of it. Severus had argued passionately that Narcissa should not change her name. He wanted audiences to believe that she had been married to an evil man, but she had been dutiful nonetheless. 

“Thank you for asking about my welfare. I hope you are doing well too,” I told the Headmistress mildly. 

She snorted, before disguising it as a sneeze. She was a remarkable woman, was Minerva McGonagall. I knew nobody else who could disguise a snort as a sneeze.

She followed me doggedly, as I made my way across the school grounds to the Lake, by the side of which was interred Dumbledore.

“How dare you!” she said fiercely when she realized what my destination was, as fierce as I imagined Boudica of England once had been. 

“How long did it take for him to die?” 

She drew her wand. Of course, she did. I caught her wrist before she could attempt anything. She snarled and pulled free, and cast a Stinging Hex for good measure. 

“I need to know, Minerva.”

“Alastor found Harry and him by the Forest,” she said, speaking fast, as if each word hurt her. She had nursed great affection for the old man, I suspected. “He was dead by when Madam Pomfrey and I arrived on the scene.” 

Long-ingrained courtesy made me conjure a handkerchief as she sniffled. She did not take it. 

“Harry changed,” she said hurriedly, running her fingers over the white tomb. “The Headmaster’s death affected him badly.”

I did not say anything. She fell silent, bowed down by memory and grief. I cast a spell to cut the creeping weeds off the tomb. Perhaps money for the school’s restoration could be one of Narcissa’s campaign promises.

“What will happen to the Muggle-borns and the Half-bloods?” the Headmistress asked, standing up, facing me bravely, fire in her eyes. 

Minerva McGonagall was the last piece of the resistance left in the country. She had not fled, instead staying to protect and teach the children Dumbledore had wanted protected and taught. If she stayed, if she taught, if she persevered with his legacy at Hogwarts, then it would speak well for the common man’s perception of peace. 

“You will not find Mrs. Malfoy unreasonable when it comes to children and education. She loves her son.” 

“She was the only sensible Black,” she muttered. “That says nothing, given that they are all mad.”

After she was called away by something urgent, I remained by the tomb, musing upon what I had learned. 

My conjecture explained everything. It explained the boy’s cruelty, Moody’s confidence, and how I had been nearly defeated. 

I sat cross-legged, by Dumbledore’s tomb, twiddling with the Elder Wand, and remembering what he had told me once, about there being consequences worse than death.

How appropriate, that Horace Slughorn had accidentally divulged the secrets of Horcruxes to Harry, just as he had once divulged them to me. 

My first kill for a horcrux had been my father. And Harry’s first had been Dumbledore. 

~~~

On a cold March morning, Narcissa won by a few dozen votes, pulling ahead of the Auror at the last moment. I might, or might not have, had something to do with that. 

She took her oath of office in London, with Severus by her side. 

“Thank you for giving me this chance,” she told the wizarding folk who had come to see her taking the oath. It was a cold and rainy day in London, and the crowd in the Atrium had braved the weather. 

“We must work together!” she exhorted them, cutting a striking figure in her pure black ensemble, an Elizabeth ported from times medieval. “I request those who have left the country to return, to open negotiations, to join us in rebuilding our world.” 

In Malfoy Manor, her sister bawled and clutched tenderly a babe bearing the Black features held to life by my magic. The infant was not ugly. I was mildly disappointed. Perhaps, I mused, I had expected her to be as ugly as I was, since it had been the same magic. It had been vain to hope for, really, given that Wormtail and I were not comparable when it came to casting powerful magic.

In Toulouse, Harry Potter announced his intentions to continue fighting for Wizarding freedom and denounced Voldemort’s she-puppet in London.

~~~


	6. Chapter 6

Delegating to Narcissa was very different from delegating to anyone else. She had spirit and opinions in spades, and preferred to draw me in as infrequently as possible into political intrigue and policy-making. She did not herald a new and prosperous phase in Wizarding History. She was conservative, and made small changes here and there. The press was curious in the initial days, but the interest had waned. She was as boring a Minister as anyone could have hoped for.

She did send me long and meticulous reports on her meetings, speeches, policy decisions and conundrums. I, who found the Stock Exchange more enjoyable than the Ministry, nonetheless toiled to read them all, and stayed abreast. Godric’s Hollow had taught me self-reliance. 

Harry Potter warned the Wizarding public about the malicious force behind Narcissa’s Ministerial position. 

When I looked at the Prophet news article, from when they had interviewed him in Toulouse last week, the boy in the photograph looked back at me solemnly. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was a black shock over his pale features, and he had aged tremendously since he had last met me on the battlefield. The horcrux had not done him any good, physically. It seemed to have sapped the vitality out of him. I wondered how Alastor Moody had persuaded the boy to create a horcrux with Dumbledore’s death. The boy’s aversion to Dark Magic was legendary, as legendary as Dumbledore’s had been. What had Alastor Moody done to make a killer out of the boy, in the short span between the boy’s arrival at Hogwarts with a dying Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall joining them to find the Headmaster dead?

He shoved his hair out of his face in the little photograph. The lightning-bolt scar was vivid against his fair skin. By his side were his loyal friends - so many of them were Order members. Yet many more were his class-mates from Hogwarts. The boy had inspired devotion in his class-mates, no mean feat for an orphan in Gryffindor that could speak to snakes. The girl, the Weasley girl, stood by him, her hand in his, tenderness fierce in her eyes as she watched him speak. She was a woman now, and I was reminded of another red-haired woman that had cast her life away for this boy. 

~~~

Harry Potter was not to be underestimated. 

In the September of that year, as Minerva McGonagall welcomed the students to the school for the academic year, the Quibbler ran the first article about Draco Malfoy’s disappearance. He had been at Rheims, studying medicine, and had vanished without a trace. There had been no signs of struggle, they said. The French Aurors were on the case. The disappearance of the British Minister’s only son was a high-profile event. 

Narcissa held her own as journalists plagued her with questions. She held her own despite the negative comments by the naysayers. 

She held her own until I heard her small wrists hammering plaintively on my door at nine that night. There was Severus standing guard behind her, his eyes wary as he took in the surround. 

“Please!” Narcissa wept, falling to her knees at my feet and clutching my robes in despair. 

Harry Potter had a horcrux. Harry Potter was powerful. I had absolutely no intention of meeting him in a fray with the odds being what they were. I needed to find the horcrux and destroy that first, before attempting to kill the boy.

“Pull yourself together,” I told the wretched woman, waiting until Severus helped her up again. She clung to him, sobbing.

“The Headmaster of Beauxbatons has offered use of school-space to perform negotiations with the Order,” Severus reported. 

“With whom?”

“Remus Lupin,” Severus said distastefully. He held Narcissa closer and said in a calmer tone, “I expect that he will be more reasonable than Potter.”

“Narcissa will stay here in London to conduct Ministry business,” I told him sharply. “Lead the negotiations. You will, of course, keep me apprised.”

He looked torn for a moment between worry and fear, before he said, “They will only negotiate with you, my Lord.”

I frowned. Was this an attempt at a coup? Once I was out of the country, Potter could win a war here. Bella had not returned to the ways of the wand after her experiences at Potter’s hands. Narcissa had the protection of the Aurors, but if the wily Scrimgeour decided to support Potter, then that would not serve her. Severus was training our men as best as he could, but the Order had recruited many young men and I knew that Potter would have trained them well. 

If I did go to France, the Wizarding public would think better of me. They would perceive my willingness to negotiate as a sign that I cared for the country’s welfare. 

I needed to have Bella on the field.

“I am coming to the Manor,” I told them. “Narcissa, you know as well as I do that Potter is unstable. Your son may not be intact.”

She fainted. I frowned. I had expected to have a more level head on her shoulders. 

“My lord,” Severus said hesitantly. “Perhaps it is best to tread light where mothers and children are concerned.”

Would that he had advised something along these lines all those years ago!

~~~

Bella was trembling when I approached her.

“I want you to lead our men again,” I told her plainly. 

She shook her head repeatedly and backed away. 

“Bella, you will not face Potter again, not if I have anything to say about it,” I said sharply.

“He made you run,” she whispered, tears falling like candle-lit jewels down her pale cheeks. “He made you run for your life. He was hunting you, he was toying with you. When he Disarmed you, I saw his eyes. He wanted to make you kneel, he wanted to make you beg for your death.”

“He did not win, Bella.”

“He very well might have!” she screamed. “He could have won, he could have made you beg. And why? Because you had come to save me. I cannot do that again, my lord! I cannot be the reason why you fall to him.”

Bella’s loyalty was incomprehensible. She had gone to Azkaban for me. She had been willing to die that day, at Potter’s hands, than risk my life. I did not like to touch her, no more than I liked to touch any woman. Yet, I remembered the young girl of fifteen who had sworn life and loyalty to me. I had touched her then, to mark her. I touched her again, closing my palm over the mark on her wrist.

“You are a Black. You are my finest. Have you known me to break my promise?”

She shook her head. 

“I can promise you this, Bellatrix: You will not see me fall to Potter.”

~~~

When I arrived at Beauxbatons, I was confident that Bella and Severus would manage to repel any attempt at a coup. I had brought Avery and Nott with me. Nott was a dab hand at poisons and Avery was one of the best duellists I had trained. 

It was possible that the negotiations were a facade and that there might be an attempt at slaughtering us. I was not concerned. I was afraid of very little after having faced the Elder Wand in Potter’s hand. My magic had been enough then. 

“Potter wants the wand,” Avery muttered, as he read his correspondence.

“I had noticed his passion on the subject.”

“He is taken with the tale of the Peverell brothers,” Avery remarked.

Abraxas had been taken with that tale. Most children born in the Wizarding world had been, I had noticed. To conquer death, armed with the Deathly Hallows, had that not been Grindelwald’s ambition? 

The wand existed. I had heard nothing of the other Hallows, in all the time that I had spent studying lore. The legend had kindled hope in me once, as I had realised then that I would only have to seek those objects to conquer death. I had found other ways, after I had given up my search. 

“Lucius believed in it,” Avery said.

Lucius was no believer in fairy-tales. He had been level-headed and rational. I wondered why he had believed. What had he come across?

“He believed that Potter’s Invisibility Cloak was the Cloak.”

Interesting. Lucius must have had good reason to believe so. The Cloak, The Stone and the Wand - Hallows three to conquer Death. 

“My lord?” 

“I am a fool.”

“My lord?” Avery questioned, worried. “Are you feeling well?”

I laughed. My laughter had never been angelic, but after my resurrection, it sounded shrill and ugly. That I, who had once loved music enough to linger in the streets of the West End to hear the faint music from the orchestras and the churches, would now have a laughter which sounded ill to my ears, was an irony. Avery’s face had a touch of fear.

“It is nothing, Avery,” I told the man. 

Potter could not win. I had the stone. It must have been passed down through the Peverells to the Gaunts, and had been set in that ring. If I had delayed dealing with the Horcruxes, it was possible that Dumbledore could have found the ring and correctly guessed the identity of the stone. He would have then given Potter all three Hallows.

~~~

Potter was close. I could sense that, through our dormant bond. I took a deep breath and tried to settle my mind into calmness. He pushed through our bond his unwillingness to let me do so. I smiled, despite myself. My equal, indeed. He certainly had come closer than anyone else. 

There were two options. I could persevere and my focus would be eventually enough to calm us both, despite what he wanted. I did not wish to waste my time doing so. So it would be the second option. I let him do as as he wished, and went outside for a walk.

My travels had not brought me to the Pyrenees before. Abraxas had once come here with his relatives, to meet a girl, who had then become his wife. I had heard of Beauxbatons later, mostly in relation to the Triwizard Tournament. I had heard rumours of the previous Headmistress’s passion for Hagrid. The current one was, thankfully, not a half-giant. He stayed neutral though it was said he had a soft corner for Remus Lupin. 

The castle was loud, unlike Hogwarts. In Hogwarts, the beauty had been in the dark and the old, the neglected and the forgotten. Here, beauty was for display, bright and glittering, never out of a visitor’s eyes. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, reaching out, across waters and forests, until I could feel the old songs of Hogwarts’s stones. Those songs had granted me a sliver of restfulness, despite everything, even at my lowest, when I had been a ghost amidst the trees of desolate Albania.

There was a lake at the front of the grand chateau, still and calm. The chateau was reflected in it, as were the mountains and the full moon. I could feel the Disillusionment spell that bore Nott’s mark. He must have seen me walking alone and followed. He was at a goodly distance, far enough away not to intrude and close enough to aid me should anything befall me. His father had taught him well. 

I could feel stronger magic here. I could smell a familiar scent, that of Potter’s arousal. It overpowered the fragrances of the flowers. He must be quite close. I decided to retrace my steps. 

“Wait!” he called out, from beyond the bend.

I half-expected him to pop out with his lower-half nude. Fortunately, he was soberly attired and did not look crazed by lust. 

“Mr. Potter.”

“You calmed me earlier!” he said accusingly, coming close, chest puffing in outrage. “You put me to sleep doing so, you bastard!”

I was amused. I had only wanted to lull him into calmness so that he would stop plaguing my rest. I had not even attempted forcefully. 

“Were you swimming?” I asked innocently.

He snorted and muttered, “You would wish that. I was eating.”

The image of Potter, falling asleep in the midst of a grand feast, was highly entertaining. 

“How is Bellatrix doing?” he asked then, his eyes dark and his lips thin.

I had known that the boy would harbour guilt. He might be unstable because of the horcrux, but even so, he was a very delicate man, easily bothered by his acts and what they wreaked on others. Perhaps he might make an exception for what acts of his pertained to me. I was, after all, inhuman in his eyes. He hated Bella, for his godfather’s death, and for her cruelty on the battlefield. I suspected, however, that he had as many nightmares about their last meeting as Bella herself did. It was one of the reasons why I had been very careful to make my mind inaccessible afterwards. I had wanted him to stew in his guilt. I had wanted no part of his nightmares.

“How is Draco doing?” I asked him. “Will I have to put together pieces of him, entrails and limbs?” 

He reared back, as if struck. Then he said in a low voice, “He is in Remus’s custody. I have not seen him.”

He was afraid. He was afraid that he might have done something to Draco if he had been the custodian. I thought about the time when I had made my first horcrux. I had been afraid that I might hurt Abraxas. He had suspected, but he had soldiered on, first taking care of me and then gently pulling me back from some of the madder impulses. Eventually, I had learned to control my impulses, on my own. That had served me well, until I had had one horcrux too many. 

“I enjoyed immensely my duel with you,” he said then, eyes glinting with desire.

“When you thought you would win? Or when you had lost?” 

He blushed and then muttered, “I did think the wand would be enough.”

“Wands are fickle, Mr. Potter. They go where the power is.”

He did not reply. I wondered if he truly believed in the notion of our equality. Was that why he had believed a wand would make the difference? The situation was complex. A part of my soul was in him. A part of his soul was elsewhere. What were the consequences? Would mine meld with his, fill the space? Perhaps, all said and done, he was more an eldritch creature than I was. Did he know yet that he carried a part of me? 

“Are you still fucking Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked then, his voice hard and spiteful. 

He was very young. He still believed that women loved to be fucked. Most men believed that. Little wonder why Narcissa had been ripe for the plucking. 

Oh, well, it was not as if Albus Dumbledore would have bothered informing the boy of the difference. He had stayed away from women. 

“One does not fuck a woman, Mr. Potter. One pleases them.”

The difference was significant. Sometimes, pleasing a woman involved fucking her. Not always.

The boy bristled, feeling that his manhood was being questioned. I could sense his thoughts, unbridled, as he brimmed with dark satisfaction on how pleased his red-headed paramour had been.

Occasionally, I wished that the chosen one had been a man more mature, instead of a boy who wanted to believe he was a gift to women.

“One does not fuck a woman. One pleases them,” said Potter sotto voce. “I will make sure to engrave that as your epitaph on your headstone,” he said, and stalked away.

Later that night, I could not help a smile at the most entertaining image of pilgrims visiting the grave of a Dark Lord, and bowing their heads in reverence as they read the inscription on the tomb.

~~~

Remus Lupin was remarkably easy to negotiate with. He looked at the end of his tether, as did his comrades. Potter was not there. There was his Mudblood friend, looking very mature and responsible. There was Narcissa’s niece, Andromeda Black’s child. They met my eyes, though the chamber was rank with fear.

None of them bore the stamp of resilience that Potter did. Then again, Potter’s penchant for survival was second to none, and equal to mine. 

“I bring to you the Minister’s terms,” I said smoothly. “Mr. Malfoy is to be given into my custody, intact and unharmed. In return, the Minister invites you to lay aside your objections to the people’s will and return to our country, so that we may build a future together. The government is willing to pardon all who are in the Order, as long as they have not been involved in acts of terrorism. There is a small requirement that you will be under surveillance for the next fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years?” Lupin asked. “That is too long.” 

“This is a free world. If you disagree with the Minister’s terms, you are welcome to keep Mr. Malfoy,” I told him. 

“What about Harry?” the Mudblood girl asked, her face full of fear. 

“Mr. Potter, unfortunately, is wanted in the country for his acts of terrorism, savage acts towards a pregnant woman and her unborn child. He will stand trial if he chooses to return.”

Lupin sighed and said calmly, “We cannot agree to let Draco go unless we have assurance that Harry will be safe.”

“I merely convey the Minister’s decision,” I said politely. 

“You are not negotiating!” Lupin barked.

“No, I am not. I am not a representative of the Ministry. I have no authority to negotiate. You asked me to be present. I am present.”

Lupin rose to his feet, in anger. The Headmaster of Beauxbatons cleared his throat. Lupin assumed his seat again, face dark. 

Severus might have negotiated for Draco’s life, and for Potter’s. He loved both their mothers, after all. It was for the best that he was not here. I had no compunction about what might happen to Lucius’s son. In fact, removing him would be removing Narcissa’s last weakness. Yet, it was important to remember what Severus had said, about mothers and their children. 

One of the Weasleys entered the room, then, bearing a newspaper. He passed it to Lupin. 

“Rabastan Lestrange did not find the catacombs of Toulouse very challenging, I daresay,” I said quietly, rising to my feet. “I believe there is a very charming picture of the Minister embracing her rescued son on the fourth page. She might have something to say about the broken bones and the bruises, but potions will serve to repair all of that.” 

Lupin closed his eyes for a moment before saying, “Why even affect the facade of negotiations?”

“The Minister does wish you to return. Her policy is one of integration. She believes that Miss Granger,” I nodded at the Mudblood courteously, “is best suited to be the liaison with the Muggles. She believes that werewolves could benefit from a new liaison too, given that Greyback now is occupied with building schools and hospitals for his kind.”

“What do you want?” Granger asked.

What did I want? Nothing from them, certainly. What I wanted was Potter’s horcrux gone, Potter defeated, and my reign unthreatened by a fool’s prophecy. 

“Think about the Minister’s offer,” I told them. “If you are willing to take it, cross the Channel and surrender to the Aurors at the press conference next Tuesday.” 

When I left the room, sliding it gently shut behind me, I saw Nott speaking with Severus. They turned to face me as I approached them. They were both excited as they gestured. Severus looked travel-worn. He must have travelled to the Pyrenees as soon as Draco had been returned to his mother. 

“My lord!” Severus exclaimed. 

“Surely you did not think that I would stoop to negotiate, did you?” 

He looked impressed. I basked in that. Then I wondered why he was impressed. I had not made it to where I was without cunning.

“I came to tell you that arrangements for next week have been made,” Severus said. “If you are interested, since you are already on the Continent, I also wanted to deliver news of an opportunity to speak at Durmstrang this week.”

Minerva McGonagall had not yet invited me to speak at Hogwarts. She would, once Narcissa cemented her power. Durmstrang would be a good beginning. I wanted to speak to the children. I wanted to speak to them directly. 

“I am ready to leave early on the morrow, Severus,” I told him. 

I had business to attend to this night. 

~~~

Potter was by the lake, alone, a sentinel under the moon. He had a red, woolen scarf wrapped tight around his neck. Gryffindor’s child, and his blood was in me. 

“You won,” he remarked. 

The wand of holly was held tight in his hand. 

“You stand no chance without Dumbledore,” I told him. 

He laughed at that, long and hard, until he began quivering with repressed sobs. I remembered crying in Abraxas’s arms after killing my father, not for my father’s sake, not for my sake, but overcome by the sheer instability of my mind after splitting my soul for the first time.

“He was right, when he said that there are things worse than death,” he wheezed out, between his sobs. 

I did not reply. Perhaps, in that old and faded world, where Dumbledore had dwelt after imprisoning Grindelwald, there had been things worse than death. 

“Why won't you kill me?” he asked, and this was a young boy asking a plaintive question, as one of those boys from orphanage had asked when I had led them to the cave. 

“Bellatrix’s screams won’t go away. I wanted to kill myself after that day,” he said in a broken voice. “Hermione and Ron wouldn’t let me. Bless them, I don’t know what I would have been without them. I was so close to becoming a monster, so close to becoming you. I pity you sometimes, you know. You haven’t known love. If you had, you wouldn’t have become this monster.”

“A monster you want to fuck, apparently.”

“I don’t know what is wrong with me,” he said in a small voice, his shoulders stooped by the burdens he had taken on. “Look at me, talking to you. I know why you won’t kill me. You are afraid it will do something to you, because of our connection. I am so relieved that you killed Alastor,” he said then, eyes blazing. “He was a sick man.”

“You cannot shift the responsibility of Dumbledore’s death,” I told him. 

“I loved Dumbledore!” Potter exclaimed, angry and sad. “I loved the old man. He was the kindest man that walked the earth. He was always there for all of us. I fed him the potion because he asked me to. I chanted the words Alastor gave me because he asked me to. The Killing Curse is more humane than poison, and I should have been able to give Dumbledore that last service. Instead we made something out of his death that he spent all his life fighting. Why? I wanted to defeat you. I wanted to be rid of you finally. Alastor promised that this would. He promised that this and the Elder Wand would be enough. It didn’t work. Nothing worked.”

I stood there, listening to his impassioned confession. I had never thought much of Alastor Moody. I had, however, believed that Potter had been intelligent enough and noble enough to not do such a foolish thing as create a Horcrux out of a poisoned man’s death. Magic rewarded the clean and the quick. Poison was neither clean nor quick. Magic rewarded the decisive. Potter had not been decisive. Little wonder that the horcrux he had made had caused such instability in him.

“I am going to walk into that patch of woods,” I told him. “I will wait for three minutes. You may join me, if you wish.”

“Why?” he asked, blinking in surprise, thrown out of his pathos.

I did not reply, instead making for the copse of trees. I did not know the names of trees very well. Growing up in London was not conducive to that. By their leaves, I could tell that they were firs of some sort. If Abraxas had been with me, he could have told me all about them. He had known a lot about trees. He had loved the conifers, and would often tell me about the forest fires and how new trees burst out of cones after a fire, living when all other life was dead. 

Potter joined me. I had known that he would. 

“Take off your clothes.”

“Are you insane?” he shouted. 

“You may leave.”

He huffed and looked at the twigs on the ground. I waited patiently. He huffed and began taking off his clothes. They were well worn-in and had likely once been hand-me-downs. It was cold, and his skin was pale. He shivered. He left his glasses on. 

I walked closer. He trembled under my gaze. His skin was not as smooth as Narcissa’s and when I touched his elbow, it was not as warm as Abraxas’s body had been. There were scars on his body, and I could see his muscles straining with his breathing. 

I turned him around. He resisted, but gave in. He hissed when the wool of my robes scraped against his cold skin. I was taller than him, so this was more convenient. I did not have to look at him and that was welcome. 

“Voldemort-”

I stuck to the quick and the economical, my wrist moving deftly to give him what he sought. And I opened our bond, found it full of his pleasure, reached out far and deep, to seek that part of me which was in him. I inhaled sharply as I realised my fears had been proven true. The soul piece had started merging with his incomplete soul. 

“Faster!” 

I did not oblige. I looked more, through the cavalcade of his emotions, through the fading memories, through the white crash of orgasm, until I saw what I had sought. The eye. The fake eye that Moody had used. 

The boy collapsed against me with a cry, panting and cold, and I stepped back. He slid down onto the ground and curled up against the elements. 

I Disapparated, back to Britain, to the graveyard where Moody had been interred, and cast a spell. It came up empty-handed. The eye was not there. 

Hogwarts then. I went there and started my quest. The halls were empty, but for the ghosts. Everyone must have retired. The stones welcomed me and the candles flared brighter. When I gripped my wand, my fingers were sticky with semen, and I remembered Potter’s cry of pleasure when he had collapsed against me. 

~~~

Most of the Order members returned to the country and laid down arms at Narcissa’s press conference the next week. The Minister kindly accepted their well-wishes and exhorted them to work for the good of our society. It was all touching. 

Draco Malfoy had returned. I desired to send him away, but he had proven to be a liability. So I despatched him to Glasgow, where he could be of use at the new hospital Greyback wanted for the werewolves. I cited safety as the major reason, and Narcissa saw no reason to argue. Good. I had no use for Lucius’s son in a position close to me. 

Bella returned to the field. I tried to keep an eye on her, occasionally visiting the training academy and dueling with her students. Most of them were pathetic, but one does have uses for cannon-fodder. Besides, they only needed to be vicious to be effective, not talented. 

The speaking engagements suited me. The schools were my most favoured arenas for speaking. All the young minds. They listened, and they asked questions. I was a benevolent man, answering them, indulging their foibles, and I might have even seen a newspaper clipping that compared me to the late, great Dumbledore. That tickled me. Yet, it was important. Dumbledore had it right. And I had known it myself. Schools were the future. And teaching children to believe in your cause was very important.

I had a severe disadvantage in my appearance. Dumbledore had looked trustworthy. I had once looked trustworthy and charismatic. 

Initially, I had thought of wearing a hood while speaking at the schools. Narcissa had dissuaded me, saying that it would only lead to speculation and fear. 

“Let them see,” she said. “Let them get used to it.”

“They will ask.”

“Then tell them that you chose this form over all others.”

That was not true. I would have chosen any other form over this.

Harry Potter remained at large. I could sense him. Albania. The snakes that had once spoken to me now spoke to him. The fear that had once had me as a thrall now had him. And when his mind touched mine, desperate and fearful, I saw that he had seen the truth - he had finally seen what was in him.

He wandered through dale and glade, as lost as Byron’s Manfred, raving at the seas and teetering at the cliffs, praying to Gods that didn’t exist to kill us both. 

~~~


	7. Chapter 7

Narcissa won her second term with a resounding majority. She took the dais as if she had been born to it. 

“You must understand that they prefer handling matters their way,” she was telling me later that evening, at the celebratory dinner that had been organised.

The Death Eaters had grown plumper in the absence of war. Some of them had grown balder. Avery’s head gleamed in the candlelight, and with his nose, he looked like a bald eagle. 

Bella had gained weight as she did everything else - voluptuously. She still held the men’s attention as easily as she had done at fifteen. 

It was a striking contrast to see Severus’s waistline and remember the scrawny boy that had been given unto me all those years ago. He seemed uncomfortable with my staring, so I let my gaze shift back to Narcissa. 

“Tell them that funding is dependent on how they prefer handling matters,” I told Narcissa.

We had been discussing Unspeakables. I had long sought to bring their activities under my strict scrutiny. They had resisted. They had played coy. They had agreed to comply, then had not. Ministry matters, I had come to realise, were best solved by dangling funding before the recalcitrant.

“They will not like that, my lord,” Narcissa remarked.

“Will wonders never cease,” I muttered, sniffing at the wine she had poured.

“It is safe,” she told me, taking a sip of her own.

“I wouldn’t put it past your late husband to have laid down casks full of poisoned liquor.”

She did not reply to that. I watched her. She was wearing one of her favoured yellow dresses. When attending to Ministry business, and for all public appearances, she wore the black of the widow. In the seclusion of her house, amidst her old friends and comrades, she preferred her yellows and blues, her dainty lace-collared blouses and ruffles on her skirts. I would half-suspect her of wearing a corset underneath her clothes, if not for the fact that I had, at one point, been intimately acquainted with her. Yet, that had been a long time ago. That had been before her once gold hair was turning grey, before wrinkles had come to roost on her brow, before her skin had become coarser to the touch. 

I wondered how Harry Potter was aging. I had heard little of him in the news, but I could feel him in my mind, a steady undercurrent of rage, loss and arousal. 

“You are aging,” I told Narcissa.

She looked offended, before she noted wryly, “At least, I happen to have escaped the Black waistlines.”

Blacks had been notable for that, I remembered, thinking of Cynus, Orion, Dorea and Walburga. They had grown fatter, though no less attractive, as they aged. Bella was following in their footsteps. Narcissa was aging almost as gracefully and softly as Abraxas had. There was the same tell-tale acceptance of life’s ways stamped serene on her features. 

~~~

Minerva McGonagall was the first to die, in this new world of ours. She was put to rest beside her ancestors, in her native land, and bagpipes played at her funeral. 

Draco Malfoy took over as the new Headmaster of Hogwarts. I was finally pleased to have settled the matter of the young Malfoy. He had been growing restless at Glasgow and I had been keeping an eye on him. Now that he was safely ensconced in a position of considerable power at Hogwarts, I could be reassured that he would not plot coup any time soon. 

~~~

Severus took ill during Narcissa’s third term as Minister. It was his lungs. He had lived a hard life, and then he had lived a life amongst his precious fumes. In the recent years, his devotion to Narcissa had ensured that he had stayed less amidst the fumes, but that had been too late. Narcissa nursed him, faithfully. 

I had to, by necessity, take over her Ministerial duties. I hated every moment of that. The constant petty plotting, the political games that were still schoolyard games, the shallowness of it all - it seemed shameful that men and women as these led the world.

I felt compelled, nonetheless, to continue subjecting myself to this. Narcissa had been loyal. Severus, though disloyal, had served me well.

At the end of two months of being a politician, I sat in Narcissa’s parlour and gratefully accepted a cup of tea from her.

“It is a thankless endeavour,” I told her.

She smiled, saying, “I thought you had known that all along, to have forced me into it.”

Severus had been insistent on not using Dark Magic to prolong his life. That irritated me. He was useful. It was in my interest to aid him. He refused it. He had always been the romantic sort, taken with Dumbledore’s ideas of greeting the next great adventure.

“You stand fast?” I asked him, yet again.

His wheezing, ruddy face was very unpleasant to watch. Yet, Narcissa kissed him and nursed him, faithfully. She had done the same for me, when I had been dealing with my horcruxes. I wondered if I had looked uglier than Severus. I quite possibly had. 

“I am very grateful for all that you have done for me,” he wheezed and dared grip my hands, startling me. He was a dying man, after all. I forced myself to not shirk away from the sweaty palms. It did not require as much will as I had thought it might - for some reason, the image of Severus coming to me devoutly at sixteen stayed my revulsion.

He continued speaking to me, though I registered very little of it. I was, despite myself, fascinated by Death creeping dully over him. I had not seen a natural death before, in such close proximity. Life left his hands, unnoticed, and I stayed still. When his hands turned cold in algor mortis, I must have screamed, for several House-Elves and Narcissa rushed in. I remember Narcissa quelling her sobs to come to my side and lead me away. 

~~~

The funeral had more mourners than I had expected. 

Severus had been a very difficult teenager. He had continued to be a difficult adult. He continued to be difficult in his death. He had wanted to buried next to Dumbledore. Narcissa had hesitantly brought the request to me. I had been too shaken by my experience of watching his death that I had asked her to make whatever arrangements she thought necessary. If the dratted man had not dared to die clinging to my hands and shaken me so, I would have fed his body to the crows in spite for making his silly request.

I had, by then, ceased to be a novelty in the Wizarding World. So I went with Narcissa, who wore her black and clung to my arm tight. I was afraid that it might cause speculation in the newspapers, but I could not bring myself to care. It was a profitable arrangement - she received a comforting hand, I received something warm to chase away the horrible coldness of Severus’s dead hands. 

Miss Granger came by, plump and waddling, to give Narcissa her condolences. 

“He helped us a great deal when we were on the run, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, casting a wary glance at me. I wondered if a quip about bureaucracy defanging the revolutionary would be in order. “He sent us food and books. After we surrendered, he always made sure to come by my office in the Ministry and look in on me.”

“Are you pregnant?” I asked her, truly curious. She had not been so fat when I had seen her last.

She looked frightened and offended, and quickly scampered away. 

“My lord, you should not ask about waistlines so bluntly,” Narcissa told me, smiling despite her tearful eyes. “Miss Granger is merely showing the effects of a desk-job, a home, and a life not on the run.”

I sniffed and told her, “Having the luxury of these has not had an effect on me, you will have noticed.”

She clung tighter, mopped her tears away, and said, “I have not had the opportunity to inspect this in close quarters recently.”’

“His side of the bed hasn’t turned cold yet, Narcissa,” I remarked, amused by her clinginess and desire to not have an empty night.

Yet, that boded well. I had wondered how to draw her out of her grief. I wanted to get out of the Ministry, so a grieving Narcissa would not have been conducive.

She gently extricated her hand from mine and walked to the bier. I did not follow her. I had seen enough of Severus’s corpse and had no inclination to look upon it again. 

Bella was there, with her child. I suspected that Bella was in attendance only because the child had liked Severus. I saw Lupin making for me, no doubt propelled by a desire to keep me company given that he saw me alone. He could always be relied upon for such ridiculousness. Sometimes, I despised myself for having chosen the path of bureaucratic conquest instead of a war. Men such as these would not have been left alive. 

I had hoped that Lupin and the Weasleys and all the rest of the Order would stage some rebellion, so that I might have had an excuse to put them down. They had not obliged. Instead, they had melded in with society, went about their business, and I was left tending a Ministry to lead sheep. 

“He was a good man,” Lupin told me. He looked as if he had been crying. He held in his hands a large, dotted, red handkerchief. I held my wand ready to cast a Shield in case he attempted to touch me. 

“I always thought,” Lupin continued, “if I had been nicer, if I had stood up to my friends when they had been bullying him, he would not have strayed.”

Strayed to the Dark. Severus, with his fine mind for strategic malice, and his pure enthusiasm for all kinds of magic, was unlikely to have stayed in Dumbledore’s coop. He had liked the freedom of experimentation I had allowed. 

Severus had despised Lupin. I was surprised, given how well I knew the dead man had clung to grudges, that Severus had not left a clause in his will to bar Lupin from the funeral. 

I walked away from Lupin, who was still talking. I had in the pocket of my robes a magical eye, Severus’s bequest to me. Narcissa had slipped it into my robes, and whispered in my ear that I might like what his last gift had been.

I did like his gift. I could feel Harry Potter’s magic, nestled against my side, warming my body. The boy, when he had made the ill-advised Horcrux, had been all of sixteen. The horcrux smelled heady, as heady as the semen he had once coated my fingers with. 

Severus always had one more surprise up his sleeve. And he had surprised me, yet again, by bequeathing me something I had sought for years.

When I reached the borders of the Forbidden Forest, I threw the eye onto the ground and cast the first of many protective spells on myself.

Destroying somebody’s horcrux was a more pleasant endeavour than destroying your own. When the boy’s shade came to form, sixteen of age, with red-rimmed eyes and a thin, set mouth, I suspected it might try to seduce me.

It didn’t. Instead, the shade whimpered in relief and closed the bright green eyes, as if expecting to be done away with.

“Why?” I asked him.

“There are things worse than death,” the ghost told me, pleading for destruction.

I granted it.

Harry Potter should go down in history as the only man who made a horcrux and still stayed _pure_. I clenched my wand tightly in my hands as I looked at the destroyed horcrux. 

“I should thank you for doing that,” said a familiar voice from behind me.

“I am surprised you did not attempt to do away with me while I was taking care of your horcrux,” I said, turning around to face him.

He looked calmer than he had, the last time I had seen him in France. He had gained weight too. His hair was white around his ears, his eyes were deep and green, and his smile reminded me of that of an old crone I had met in the Carpathians once. 

“Snape said he would take care of it,” said the boy - in my mind, this man would always be a boy. “I hadn’t known that he meant he would give it to you.”

“Severus was a clever man. Horcruxes are difficult to get rid of. He would, of course, rather that someone else deal with it,” I said.

It was true. Destroying horcruxes were the domain of the noble (who knew how to die) or the experienced (who knew how not to die). 

“I was surprised to see you at the funeral,” he remarked. “Nobody else looked surprised to see you out and about, at a funeral of all places. The Wizarding World now likes you, according to the newspapers. Your speeches at the schools are electrifying, your books are much sought-after, and they believe that as long as they have you, there will be no bad times.”

I did not reply. The children had been frightened by my appearance initially. Minerva McGonagall had eased them in, first requiring only the Sixth and Seventh years to attend my speeches. After they had gone to tell their juniors about how much they had learned from me, the smaller children had come to my speeches. Slowly, they had grown acclimated to me. The First Years, in particular, had no compunction in following me around, their robes too big for them and trailing on the ground, their eyes big and their mouths full of questions. I liked teaching. So I did not mind them, though I made sure that the press never caught a photo of such proceedings. 

That had been years ago. The children I had taught were now adults. Their children, I taught. Little wonder that nobody feared me. I still cast two of the Unforgivables, and still had a hair-trigger temper on the dueling grounds of the training academy, but Bella and Severus managed to shield the recruits from my worst. 

I was sometimes prevailed upon to cast the third Unforgivable, by dying Death Eaters, who wanted a quick and painless end instead of rotting slowly to the grave with whatever disease they had. I did not mind overmuch; it was a decent way to repay loyal service.

I found myself in the strange position of being a good-luck charm for Wizarding Britain, to keep its enemies at bay.

And I found Harry Potter smirking at me.

“Your caterwauling on the Continent was troublesome,” I remarked, wishing to sour his amusement. “I had not known that you were capable of such lamentation over a trifle.”

“A trifle?” he said, puffing his chest, as a male peacock does. “You managed to stick a piece of your soul on mine when you failed to kill me. That is not a trifle!”

He was clearly saner than how I remembered him. I wondered if this meant that his strange obsession with me had also passed. I touched our bond, and found it full of his arousal.

This time, when he came in my hand, his nude form against my clothed self, his voice breaking on a groan of pleasure, I did not seek anything in his mind. I was about to step back, when he growled and clung. He smelled of moss and spring flowers, of the old Black Forest.

“Travelling in Germany?”

“Keeping an eye on me?” he asked, cocky and sure.

I refrained from telling him that I simply had placed the scent of the wildflowers. I pushed him away when he tried to bring his face close for a kiss. The idea was revolting. We were nothing to each other, except for the strange bond of murderer and not-murdered. I had been kissed before, in this very same Forbidden Forest, and it had not been revolting then.

“Are we only doing the quick and dirty then?” he asked, his eyes troubled. 

I touched his mind and found it full of notions about destiny and being the Dark Lord’s equal. I sketched a quick bow and took my leave of him. 

~~~

Narcissa lacked Potter’s presumptuousness. It was cold in St. Giles, and having something as pleasant as Narcissa to occupy myself with was welcome. 

~~~

It began slowly. Once, when she was riding me, she tired and I obliged by reversing our positions. 

I came across a newspaper article that wondered if Narcissa Malfoy was not old to run for a fifth term at the Ministry. 

The spread of age - sagging and wrinkles - was gradual and I did not notice until I chanced to wake before her in the morning once. She was usually a punctual waker, up with the dawn. This one time, I had woken up before her, and had seen her body in the sunlight. 

Then one night, after we had supped, the long table empty but for the two of us, she asked me to join her in the parlour. 

“I am old,” she said frankly. “My bones are giving out, breathing is difficult, and I know that I am not for this world any more.”

“I don’t wish to,” I told her, finally understanding what she was trying to ask. “You must ask someone else.”

“Whom should I ask, my lord?”

~~~

I sought Potter this time. I blindly followed the bond, to Austria, to a little shack in the woods to the north, and found him cooking.

“What is wrong?” he asked, surprised.

I stood on the threshold of his shack, and laughed. 

Later, Potter said that he feared for us both, that I might try to kill us both. He nursed me through it nonetheless, holding me and soothing me, feeding me his foul concoctions that Severus would have despaired of, protecting us both from the wild and from the wild men, and I vaguely remembered that we occasionally succumbed to coitus during that period. 

After I had snapped out of it, he looked at me with wise, tired eyes and asked, “She is dead, isn’t she?”

I nodded, refusing to meet his gaze and staring at his fingers.

“She was a bitch, asking you to kill her.”

I wanted to refute that. Narcissa had been graceful and lovely, with eyes as blue as a robin’s eggs, even after I had cast that spell of green. I had fled immediately afterwards, stopping only to grab Slytherin’s locket, not even waiting to make funeral arrangements. I had fled to Potter.

“You shouldn’t stay,” he told me, taking my hands in his. “I am going to die. You aren’t. Our bond is going to go wonky once I die. Best not to get used to me, or anyone really. Travel, be a recluse, conquer other countries, take lovers and discard them, do something that won’t get you used to anyone.”

Potter passed me a Daily Prophet that had headlines about Narcissa’s death and my disappearance. I set it aside. I had no interest to read what they thought of it all. I had no interest in returning. 

“Why aren’t you murderous?” I asked him.

“I owe you one, for the horcrux you destroyed,” he told me mildly.

“Did we fuck while I was incapacitated?” 

“Yes, it was lovely too,” he said, with a grin. “I took off your clothes, for one. It isn’t sex proper unless both people are naked.”

Abraxas would not have done such a thing. He would have considered it immoral and unacceptable to have sex with a sick man. Consent, apparently, mattered little to Potter. Perhaps he imagined that there was standing consent. 

“I was the one doing the fucking,” he said. “So, in the name of fairness, you can fuck me now, if you want.”

I looked at the door leading out, away from Potter. There was very little to do in the world. And I did not wish to go back, or go anywhere.

So I took off his clothes, and mine, and led him to the cot. It was rustic, and stood at stark contrast with the luxurious cotton sheets of Abraxas’s bed. It did not soon matter, because the man underneath me was strong and muscled, he roared my name when he came, he gripped my flanks hard enough to bruise, he kissed me roughly until my lips bled, and when I collapsed atop him, he pulled the scratchy blanket over us, and we stayed so for hours, coated by sweat and fluids. 

“That was brilliant,” he muttered, when he woke again, and without bothering to ask me for permission, rolled us over and rode me hard. I was reminded of the tuppence streetwalkers in the East End. Perhaps I should have expected this of him. It was enjoyable, despite his tendency to bite and scratch. When he fell asleep atop me, he slept the sleep of one who had laboured. 

He would not live for me.

I waited until he was fast asleep, disentangled myself from limbs and blanket, then picked up my wand which had clattered to the mud floor during our exertions, and then slowly made my way to the locket. 

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to everyone who read the story and wrote to me. 
> 
> If you are interested in reading more stories from me in the fandom, I encourage you to look at the stories in Eldritch, particularly the Prometheus Triptych [Voldemort/Abraxas Malfoy]. 
> 
> My experiences in the HP fandom have been wonderful, a well of positivity during grad-school. I am very grateful to everyone who made my experiences pleasant. Thank you. I hope to meet you all again.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I haven't written anything of this sort before and am quite anxious to see if I manage to write a coherent tale.


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